Tuesday, July 29, 2014

The Life

Part 1: A Medley of Horrors

“This journey has been
like a full dinner of many courses, set before a starving man. At first he
tries to eat all of everything but as the meal progresses he finds he must
forgo some things to keep his appetite and his taste buds functioning” Travels
With Charlie, Steinbeck

Ain’t No Bugs on Me

I have experienced many maladies in my two and a half years
here but extreme itchiness is a new one. HMMM what could it be? I caught
scabies in a VW bus returning from Eureka in my freshman year of college, could
it be? Is it head lice, students have worn my hat? Is it general dirt or
something unknown and mysterious? Whatever it is its vexing as it feels like
microscopic bugs are crawling over my entire body or maybe it’s the worms wriggling
on the inside? The worst zones are my scalp and bottom of my feet so I have to
alternate scratching which fires up the itchiness even more. I hope it’s not
bugs oh yeah my pits are irritated too. Could it be fleas from pup Dawa Dema or
perhaps the work of a demon? It seems especially acute in my hut? Yes I know
what you’re thinking is his hovel a sty? What to do La? Last night I couldn’t
sleep so I stood on my stoop listening to the lullaby of the river scratching
myself feverishly, good times. Oh by the way any bug doctors reading this?
Actually I’m typing with one hand and scratching my tummy with another. Heck I
spent four hours washing clothes and cleaning my lair.

After our ascension of Shampula I really appreciate
Tsenkharla ridge. I took a stroll up the spine through pine and cypress groves
with capacious views of Tawang and Yangtse with the Dangme Chu on my right and
Kulongchu on my left. On the way home I stopped in at Zangtopelri a full house
these days as two of my brightest students Sonam Rinchen and Nawang Tenzin are residing
their along with Rinch, ama, little Pema, and Jamphel. Also Deki an educated
voluptuously appointed young woman is also staying up there. I was chilling in
the shed with Deki and a calf that was licking me with her sandpaper tongue
which was about a foot long. No bestiality jokes please although it was the
most affection I have gotten in many moons. Rinchen gave me a juicy peach from
her garden which I savored. On the path near the ruin I could hear them blowing
the conch signifying the end of another day in the borderlands. Its 9:38 B.S.T
and I’m making ramen for dinner yippee! On my hike I saw a mossy looking snake
which made me think of Arwen my friend who worships snakes (if atheist can
worship) I also saw a group of boys and girls playing that stone game where
they toss one in the air and try to pick up another off the ground before
catching the original one. I watched them closely mourning their youth already
as soon puberty will change them irrevocably. I also thought of Becky who
relished teaching and playing with the young ones of Phongmey Primary School.

Eye of the Tiger

I woke up with a nasty eye infection that hurt like hell as
I described to anyone who would listen it felt like a demon was rubbing my
eyeball in a sandbox then topping it off by squirting pulpy lemon juice into my
irritated socket. So I hitched to T-Gang like an agitated Cyclops and saw the
Cuban Doctor for some drops then holed up in room 113 listening to episodes of “House”
and the “karate Kid” for two days eventually stumbling to the hospital again
where they changed my medication. If it weren’t for my infection it would have
been a perfect weekend at the hill station, a humid June evening dinning al
fresco in the veranda just like Becky and I used to do. Then I went to the momo
hut and chased my cagey little friend around the kitchen encountering the
drunken Lama who seems to do nothing but party taking full advantage of his
status (on some despicable level I can respect that) Oh by the way the K.C
Hotel is now The Pepsi K.C Hotel its moniker illuminated under the PEPSI
insignia. Furthermore Coke can no longer be purchased at the K.C Hotel or K.C Store.
During my rehabilitation I spoke long distance with both Becky and Morgan
mainly to dominate the conversation and incessantly complain. With Morgan I was
raving about my apprehension returning to Marin where life is difficult without
money or a driver’s license and she mentioned I hadn’t established myself in
the USA and of all the rural states that might better suit me. Then it hit me
the principle reason I like it here is that I AM established for the first time
in my life. I know I’ve made mistakes and maybe even offended people with
demonstrative behavior but I know I have accumulated some merit by educating
the students. By Sunday my eye was on the mend and I was even able to
appreciate a maiden’s superbly rounded buttocks as she climbed into a red taxi.
Is there anything sadder than a bachelor in heat on a broiling afternoon in a
foreign land? Well maybe the situation in the Middle East but I digress. Sad
news conveyed by the receptionist at the Pepsi K.C, the Nepali kid a real good
egg died unexpectedly last month apparently from alcohol and pills but it just
as easily could have been a seizure since BST can also mean Bhutan Stretchable
Truth. Poor kid he was only in his early twenties leaving behind a young widow.
He always had a glint in his eye and was a hell of a cook and I know he took a
particular shine to Jonathon. I cogitated lying on my bed with a festering eye
cognizant of impermanence to the soundtrack of Alice in Wonderland blaring from
the T.V.

Endangered Trees

The ride home was lovely despite the obtrusive roadwork
which nearly claimed the life of my favorite shimmering tree near a spring that
I noticed on my maiden voyage to Tsenkharla two and a half years ago. This
broadleaf specimen seemed to be transplanted from the Garden of Eden and In
February 2012 it was an emerald encrusted in a sunburned landscape. Now it’s
undermined and dusty barely spared by the bulldozer reminding me of that
remarkable banyan tree with roots exposed, nearly a victim of the Sakteng Road
near Phongmey. I was de facto tour guide for Pema the aforementioned lass with
the ass since it was her first trip east I pointed out Gom Kora and the cave
where the beleaguered Guru finally subjugated that demoness who’d he’d been grappling
all the way from a lake in Tibet. Now I’m back atop my cherished ridge grateful
for my limited 20/200 vision again, enjoying the sepia cloudscapes of a late
spring twilight. On the work front my exam questions are set and hopefully
printed down at Kiney and now begins dreaded central marking and invigilation
duty along with filing grades, attendance, and Kidu paperwork. These tasks will
keep me occupied until summer break in two weeks.

Sunday night emadatsi at the mess so pink eye or not I’m
there along with the student body in finest gho and kira in splendid array
since the other six days school uniform is required. I am trying to avoid
contact with people in case I’m contagious but I observed from inside the
kitchen amongst the vats, pots, and pans. The students poured out of the MP
Hall in high spirits a chorus of Oy’s and PShht’s and other Sharshop sounds.
One thing the Bhutanese have my respect for is that most of them are
multilinguist, but these kids adore their Sharshop their own mother tongue.

Insomniac Theatre

Where have those rakish days gone? It’s 4:20 A.M and I
haven’t slept a wink in fact this might be the first night in Bhutan I skipped
a night of sleep except that night in Trashigang more than two years ago where
I traded war stories with Becky until dawns early light, today’s dawn a muted
grey with speckles of baby blue sky in the mix. A raven crows an early bird. Last
night a fierce tempest plopped drops of rain but as Janice says it’s all the
same day man! Especially when you don’t sleep. I am itchy have a clogged nose
and my conjunctivitis has come slithering back into my left eye. Actually I am
miserable but take heart in the chorus of crickets overlapped by a medley of
morning sounds including the stray raven and whooping whatever bird and a few
tinkles of laughter from early rising students studying for exams, and some
devout soul spins the wheel of fortune its faint chime reaching my ear. I just
stripped the bed and am soaking my sheets as now I’m convinced of bed bugs.
Poor Becky I called her three times tonight in a desperate attempt at
companionship and feel I’m abusing our friendship. All I can do is read with my
one good eye as I polished off, “Travels with Charlie” and now started “Wild.”
A world full of joy and sorrows and I don’t have to tell you which end of the
spectrum your scratchy author dwells in so early in the morning. I am heating a
bucket of water for a bath and will brew some tea for sunrise and hope for the
best. Good Morning Y’all from The Land of Terror or is it The Terror of Life!
Heartbreaking as it is this is probably my swan song preferring a standing
eight count to the Dragon’s knockout blow. But right now my task is to cure
this infernal pink eye so I can focus on my schoolwork. Flies buzz around my
head despite my clean abode and a fetid odor of feces drifts through the window
from an overflowing septic tank. Mean to wash my eye but the water trickled to
a halt. Hum I’m afraid no one gets out of here unscathed.

Care Package

On a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon I received a care package
all the way from Colorado from Miss Rebecca. Contained was an I Pod, a can of
beef ravioli which I promptly devoured, candy, jerky, books, glow sticks, and
many other sumptuous treats including salami! Best of all was a fancy pen for
Butterfly which I proudly delivered to him interrupting his class. The purpose
of this pen is a long story but Butterfly expressed his eternal gratitude and
sent his regards for Becky. It’s nice to be remembered isn’t it? And these days
I am a bit down in the mouth so the package buoyed my itchy spirit. The rain
cleared out the looking glass valley with the saddled escarpment to the east
appearing close enough to mount. The iridescent mountains hold the hues of the
sky spawning soaring puffy clouds with their animated characters. This
afternoon I continued washing everything including my two sets of sheets to
stem the tide of itchiness and on the upside the casa is clean and organized.
Exams begin tomorrow so I spent the day reviewing material with students and
doing some paperwork. I feel they are adequately prepared for the exam and
think they will perform well. But Central Marking will level the scores since
my colleagues are very strict markers ensuring lower scores across the board.
Right now I’m writing this from my desk in the staff room just before the final
bell. The sparse room has views of the courtyard which is being revamped by
Assamese laborers who are laying cement. Meanwhile assembly has been conducted
on the basketball court adjacent to the large prayer wheel. This year has seen
improvements on campus most notably a myriad of gardens and a cleaner environ
thanks to the Inter- house competition. Tsenkharla is a verdant paradise bursting
with hibiscus, geraniums, and roses. The only thing that would make life better
would be the instillation of an A & W hamburger stand, Yes I’m craving a
root beer float right now and a flame broiled cheeseburger! If anyone in the
audience wants to send me anything my address is this simple…A shameless
solicitation…

Send me a cheeseburger at:

Mr. Tim Grossman

Tsenkharla T.M.S.S, Trashiyangtse, Bhutan

Center Marking

Is it Central or Center Marking? I don’t know but I abhor it
and if I had my druthers I would mark my own exams. The reason it was
implemented is to involve support staff in helping with corrections especially
in class nine and ten which have more than five separate sections. The first
year Principal put the issue to a spirited debate and subsequent vote although
before the vote he touted the benefits of Center Marking. The second year he
made a passing comment at the review meeting and this year no feedback was
required as center marking is an unspoken decree. I have heard it through the
grapevine that other juggernaut schools have implemented this strategy which
seems communist. Let me set the stage, its three O’clock on a mesmerizing
afternoon with puffy clouds and streaks of gilded light penetrating the bluish
mountains in our hourglass ravine. How can I ever explain in words the
otherworldliness of this place? The colors and aromas are all ineffable for
instance that sour smell that is intrinsic to the east but I can’t describe it.
I soaked it in on my walk from my hut to campus (one minute) and joined my
colleagues in a packed classroom where we sat five at a table practically
buried by exam papers. From experience I know that following the answer key
gives me eye problems so I volunteered for marking essays to the amusement of
another teacher. I retorted that in the next life he might have bad eyes and me
a beautiful wife (good thing I’ve gotten over my defensiveness isn’t it?) So
for five hours we sat working our way through the pile. When it comes to
writing essays these kids are homogenous, conforming to a distinctly Bhutanese
pattern even sharing common mistakes. They love to use cliché’s and proverbs,
as the saying goes blah blah blah, “The root of education is bitter but the
fruit is sweet” Certain idioms and vernacular habits float around and are
retrieved and regurgitated by osmosis. But there are good writers here who
scribe from a different perspective and therefore teach me things. There is a
lot of chatter and gum snapping going on during all this and greasy snacks
staining the test papers and by the end someone is inevitably blaring Hindi pop
music from their phone even though we have been instructed by administration
not to do so. Sangay Tenzin (The Counselor) is the chair of the English dept.
He is a bespectacled fellow who is quite ambitious and loves to talk about
Obama and India. He’s fascinated about the USA but lambasts our foreign policy
never getting any rebuttal from me. After the last papers of the day were
marked we were still involved in a spirited debate about the deportation or
volunteered exile of the Nepali descendent Southern Bhutanese. Ironically many
of these refugees immigrated to the United States while many are still
languishing in camps near the India/Nepali border twenty five years later.
Ironically Becky’s mother’s church buttresses these displaced Southern l2Bhutanese
in Virginia. For my part I like the Southerners for their frankness and
openness you might recall my pal Baghi is a Southern Bhutanese. There are only
a few Southern students at T.M.S.S to my knowledge. I excused myself from the
marking because I had to oversee reprinting of my class six exam that came out
blurry. Since our printer broke the last primary exams were being cranked out
on an archaic hoojiggey where Cowla spins a crank after painting the ream with
black toxic ink. Cowla was fuming and quarrelling with Madam Tashi an outspoken
young woman who scowls like my aunt Mare must have thirty years ago; the men in
the office call her black beauty due to her dark complexion. Cowla is our
handyman and a strange dude altogether which is why I like him he complains and
broods which 99% of Bhutanese won’t do. He doesn’t conform to the Bhutanese
identity and is regarded as being an ignoramus. So he printed cranking and
dabbing ink with a toothbrush at one point stumbling into me staining my clean
cream colored Izod shirt with ebony ink (Of course I chose today to wear my one
clean shirt still reeking of American detergent) Butterfly tersely whispered in
my ear, “sometimes I want to fly away from this place.” But he is no pouter and
a solemn worker who keeps his darker moods suppressed in smiles and laughter. After
adjourning I took my constitutional along the west side channel encountering
young Poopghem and her friend. She is a sweet girl in class eight who speaks
beautifully and writes adequately. ESL can be so unfair since certain kids who
can speak with confidence might not be toppers as is the case with Poop. I
visited a strand of prayer flags I’d strung over a rock in the arid winter and
now they have been partially reclaimed by the thorny plants and leaves and on
my return encountered Sangay Wagdi a rebellious lad with spiked hair (oh these
boys and their Korean styled quaffs) Sangay Wangdi is more interested in girls
and roaming than studies and in that regard embodies the American teenage ethos
so of course I feel a kinship and how there aren’t more like him I can’t
reckon. In the shop in a cardboard box was sorry bunch of onions sprouting
green shoots and some very fresh small potatoes still covered in dirt, but no
tomatoes no chillies. So I sighed and skipped it skimming home having a cliff
bar from Bunks care package for supper. Tomorrow I will repeat the same routine
including invigilation duty in the morning. My eye is on the mend after a nasty
relapse but for some reason I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m exhausted by 2
P.M but at 2 A.M wired which is unusual since I have slept fairly well over the
last two years. I enjoyed a rare phone confab with Scotty from Yadi a veteran pharmacist
turned teacher who has grown kids on the other side of the world. He is the BCF
voice of reason especially when it comes to medical advice and also shares my
passion for Nepal. It’s nice to commiserate and conspire with another teacher
once in awhile as we face many of the same challenges at our respective
postings. In about two weeks I will meet a dozen teachers for the first time
many of whom live within fifty miles of my position. My third year only faintly
resembles my first year as the novelty has shredded like a ragged prayer flag
and all my old friends have gone, except my love for Bhutan only grows deeper
certainly more worn.

Bhutan lacks sunshine,
moon and stars, and cheeseburgers but it has an abundance of rainforests, tigers,
and jagged peaks emulating the abode of the gods, but of all the places I have
ever seen Tsenkharla is the best, the greatest vista is from my rock peering
straight down the gullet into naked eternity. I must be lonely, the first year
I never dialed the USA and this year I am placing a call to Becky three times a
week and calling home too (Perhaps the reader deduces I just miss Becky) These
calls are expensive but buoy my spirit. I just got cut off with my Bra who was
taking the kids to an A’s game. Heck I still remember attending games at the
Coliseum with my dad and Tyler. Life just moves along like a swift river. My
brother was interested to hear about our trek to Shampula asking if it was for
teambuilding. “Their whole existence is teambuilding” I replied and they’re
great teammates. I just hope they want me on the team but either way they never
indicate otherwise since Mr. Tim is a part of Tsenkharla family! I forgot
father’s day altogether until my dad called me and I said, “Give me a break I
just found out Iraq is at war” Then I asked about the American league East
standings. The knell of the last bell of the evening at 10 P.M for lights out a
bell that dictates seventeen hours of movement in our lives. Luckily it’s such
a pleasant noise encouraging mindfulness consistently reminding me where I live
(Heck Sangay Tobgay the little rascal is the one ringing that bell so…) On top
of a glorious ridge at the center of a mandala of mountains at the center of
the universe.

These days it’s partly cloudy with radiant sunshine and
astounding cloudscapes that conquer the afternoon bringing evening showers.
Somewhere off the coasts of India the monsoon lurks eventually climbing up the
slopes of the Himalayan range depositing buckets of rain. Bhutan even exceeds
Eureka in rainfall especially with torrents that can douse the landscape with
several inches of precipitation in minutes. Tsenkharla is considerably dry
compared to other parts of the region with our western slope robust in
vegetation compared to the drier Kiney side, both thick forest or sweeping
grasslands are all coated in endless varieties of green now. Whilst it’s true
the veneer has rusted not a day passes that I don’t appreciate the
insurmountable beauty of my placement. It helps to stay hungry! I’m off to the
refrigerator for salami (so much for a special occasion) I hope all my readers
whoever and wherever you are have a friend like Becky and if you do you ought
to kiss your lucky stars. I forgot to tell y’all about this wild looking cactus
just inside the front gate. When I came it was a knee high spiny succulent,
this year its base towers over my head and a peculiar shoot towers ten feet
above that. I’m waiting for that thing to burst open and aliens to strut out.
Nothing compares to the row of regal cypresses towering seventy feet tall on
campus that I’m sure were here in Catherine’s era. Becky found some writings of
hers on the internet which I haven’t delved into but only saw one line, “just a
village called Rangthangwoong” Well were still just a village called
Tsenkharla. I often think of the cliché “It takes a village” whoever coined
that must have spent time in Bhutan where a foreighner lives or dies with their
village. I’m so glad Pema Choden threw that dart labeled Mr. Tim and it hit
Tsenkharla and shudder to think how my fate would be altered if it had hit say
Lhuntse or Punakha. I know I was supposed to be here it’s my destiny since I’m
not that lucky. Trashiyangtse is “The Land of Spiritual Awakening” on the map
Tsenkharla is at the edge where it looks like the dragon has bitten off a
chunk. Tibet makes a foray into Arrunachal Pradesh as far South as Bumdeling so
I imagine parts of that area of Tibet look like Yangtse. As the raven soars I
am approximately forty miles from China and five from India. Although inhabitants
of all three regions share a common religion and way of life the geography and
political lines keep us isolated from one another. One similarity is that
villages are incised into vertical slopes etched into improbable crannies.
Trade between Monpa, Brokpa, and Sharshop is active and some clandestine trade
with Tibet occurs. One of my students had an uncle who reputedly walked from
Bumthang North to Lhasa which is awesome. Piet has also seen Tibetan yak herders
deep in Bumdeling on the northeastern frontier of Bhutan (he joked he was seven
minutes in Tibet) I might have glimpsed Tibet once from Kunglung but am
convinced I dreamt that multilayered
view encompassing Tsenkharla, Shampula, and finally an intricate labyrinth of
snow encrusted fangled peaks that I assumed were Tibetan. So much lies beyond
the serrated dragon’s tail and the Tawang saddleback and what about the faraway
twin Matterhorn’s that vanish for months on end? Pondering on my walk today the
last two and a half years IT seems like a fugitive dream. It’s warm now at
night as I sit on my stoop in the darkness listening to the night symphony.
It’s true that stars are dim and rare but nighttime is still the right time as
cozy darkness envelops the valley and I watch the pretty lights twinkling in
Tawang glimmering in and out of focus, and the lone white light by the river
(the rice farmer on his paddy) and the three lights above near Lamas house.

Deeply Rooted

Today I administered my class eight English One paper. You
might be interested in a detailed explanation of the English 1 and English 2
breakdown but I’m not interested in describing it. The students are lined up in
rows with countenances of consternation mulling over questions chewing their
pens. In Bhutan the exam outcome is everything and they all crave, “a colorful
result” Sure I assign homework which constitutes a fraction of their CA (Continuative
Assessment Marks) And sure I assess whenever possible but it all boils down to
exams, that’s the system and it cannot be negotiated. Bhutanese students are
multifaceted individuals who work hard and play hard. The boarding life is
hectic without much freedom or liberty for the pupil. Since exams are so
important nearly two months of the academic calendar teachers are out of the
classroom making, marking, and proctoring the tests. In defense of the system
Bhutan doesn’t have that many prestigious jobs or colleges so many students
must be weeded out and shipped back to the farms. The next twenty years will be
very interesting as a new class of educated farmers will toil in the fields
before going home to watch Indian soaps and American Movies like Deuce Bigilo. Many
of my beloved students will live a life similar to the generations that came
before but some will make it to better opportunities. My first home class from
2012 will be taking board exams this year deciding their futures. Some have
already departed from T.M.S.S like Namkith Lepcha who I will never see again.
BCF teachers share a tremendous responsibility in trying to implement western
pedagogy while still preparing the students for their standardized class ten
exams. I teach in my own style but review for the exams in the specialized
format of all Bhutanese exams. Moreover I am a class teacher which means I will
scrutinize consolidation spreadsheets entering figures, calculating, and
rechecking my work. The first year I made a mistake due to my poor vision and
they have never let me forget it. Frankly it was nice not being a class teacher
last year but in my third year I have three grade levels instead of two and I’m
a class teacher again, WTDL. Today is cloudy and warm but yesterday mellow gold
light dappled the valley before a steady rain moved in. It was warm enough to
attract mosquitoes and fireflies and the ubiquitous crickets. I haven’t been
sleeping well so I lay awake listening to the hush of the river three thousand
feet below in a desolate paddy and scrubland. The Mountains on either side of
the Dangme Chu descend almost to the meandering strip of water leaving a narrow
twisted stretch for rice cultivation, a patchwork of terraces only accessible
by descending a few toilsome hours from Kiney (a hike that nearly killed me two
years ago but was well worth it soaking in a magical pool along my holy river,
its grey water rolling by) I love to visit the lowlands but my heart belongs to
this ridge and to these cartoonish people. They are as real as me or as
cartoonish as me but detached in some wise way. One benefit of embracing
reincarnation is that it broadens the scope of one’s worldly view.
Reincarnation is hardly a reward but a punishment until one attains
enlightenment. Its complexities are beyond my puny comprehension but it has
something to do with our karma and deeds in this life. We try to do good deeds
and accumulate merit that will enhance our journey through the next life. In a
weird way it seems more sensible than hedonism or trying to gain the prize of
cloud nine. Since energy cannot be destroyed after creation our bodies will
decay into dust but what about our energy. Consciousness might be a fluke but
is more likely part of the fabric of the universe and therefore must be
recycled. But how do we hold the strand of our soul while ejected into the
Bardo, an in-between state (purgatory) between death and rebirth. I have
considered embracing the Dharma and becoming a Buddhist specifically the
tantric kick ass Himalayan Mahayana brand with its shortcuts to enlightenment,
after all Guru Rinpoche was on permanent spiritual tour. I wonder for all the
religions if anyone deep in their marrow is 100% sure of the final outcome. If
they say they are they are probably lying since how can anybody really be sure
of anything? That is what makes Buddhism attractive since at its core it’s a Science
of the Mind more than a dogmatic faith. It’s all about making ones way through
uncertainty which is the spice of life. I can laugh at my deeply entrenched
fears and neurosis as part of a human process that stretches back to our cave
dwelling Buddha’s. My challenge is letting go and unclenching my but cheeks, I
grasp and hold onto illusions. My loyalty and pride which I used to value are
the very characteristics that keep me deeply rooted in Samsara. But we can’t
all wander off like Buddha leaving behind all we know. I might have gone
halfway round the world but I am not free of any earthly bonds and am still
impacted deeply by the plight of my loved ones. Those doers like Buddha or
Eckhart Tolle seem detached and otherworldly to me furthermore alienated from
this tangible world. I remember seven years ago on the heels of an acrimonious
breakup calling my ex girlfriend and threatening suicide. I had no intention of
killing myself only plying her in a desperate attempt at pity. My pain was
incredibly vivid and REAL but it also existed in a larger reality that I am
still struggling to comprehend. In this reality we are all ONE and ego is a
joke, in this reality love isn’t something to be horded but to be spread like
jam on the toast of the world. In this broad spectrum of reality versus non
reality I am still clasping to the egocentric somnambulist dream but there are
flashes of waking from that muzzy state. Another benefit of reincarnation since
very few beings awaken in one lifetime (Only the Guru sprang awake from the
lotus a direct reincarnation of the Buddha) as for me I have strange karma to
sift through and my best teachers are my students. They are my gurus (Guru
Wangmo is an actual student) but they are the ones that point the direction to
my shortcomings and also strengths as an individual. So back to my alleged
conversion I asked Jimba my “always fine” neighbor how to go about converting
to Buddhism and she didn’t know since they are simply born into it. Furthermore
I still am not a joiner or conformist and wouldn’t dare announce my intention
to the Bhutanese who might scoff since I can’t even pray in their language. So
for now I remain a baptized Catholic and hedonic pagan with a Buddhist heart
and a sliver of awareness. Bhutan has planted a seed that hasn’t germinated and
probably won’t until I’m gone from this place. I just hide and watch and
sometimes participate alongside the finest folks on this Dragon Planet.

Back to the terrestrial I am in the staffroom lulled to
sleepiness by the whirling fan and birdsong contemplating where I can mooch
some green chillies for lunch since the shops are devoid of vegetables. I will
admit that food remains a formidable drawback in Bhutan I know I won’t starve
to death but find myself dreaming of ice cream, steak sandwiches, and West
Brooklyn Pepperoni pizzas. A smile from Pema or Kezang goes a long way
satiating my hungry spirit if not my aching belly.

Yesterday the circus of center marking trudged onward as I
sat at my own table working through a pile of essays. The Counselor and
colleagues were at the adjacent table laughing and smacking doma. Every once in
awhile the Counselor threw a fresh pile onto my heap and seemed indifferent
when I asked if he was on vacation. Today I will voluntarily mark my own essays
since it’s not fair to have two teachers marking essays who will obviously have
different standards even if following the same rubric. I will allow them to do
multiple choices and letter writing. This means extra work but shouldn’t the
student come first especially in these all important exams. It makes me angry
to see the flippant attitudes towards marking when the students put in so much
time studying. I forgot my group had ordered me to provide refreshments for
today’s stint so I better get to Kesang’s shop to purchase snacks. I’ll by them
some doma too!

On a break from
marking I dashed home to get a sweatshirt through falling monsoon showers. I
went to my fridge retrieving the thinly sliced salami that Becky sent and
curled up on my bunk rolling each piece into a reef before devouring them until
the whole pack was gone, HEAVEN!

I didn’t quite finish my stack of essays completing 45/60
and frankly disappointed by the result after we worked so hard in class. They
were riddled with clichés and other entrapments of Bhutanese writing with a few
shinning exceptions. I know how difficult writing in English is for them, I do
get that. But I had worked so hard to break familiar habits and implored them
to use their senses and describe (Not that I’m the best descriptive writer
either) It’s hard to know as an ESL teacher on one hand I am impressed they
have acquired this much skill in a foreign language even the essays that were
muddled convey fragments of meaning and the top students often blow me away with
their insightful prose. On the other hand I wonder am I aiding them in their
development. A teacher is more of a guide providing certain tools for the
students to use in discovery. We are not barrens of knowledge inculcating facts
and figures into their heads, or we shouldn’t be anyway. Sometimes I’m humbled
by my occupation and the enormous power I wield, other times it makes me feel
ineffective and guilty for not being good enough. I wonder if other teachers
feel this way too or are they confident or indifferent. I feel fortunate to be
working here and not under the scornful bureaucracy of the California public
school system. Maybe it isn’t so but as a student teacher I never felt
comfortable in upscale Marin County. Here I feel accepted for who I am including
my mistakes. I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world but am uncertain
about my career choice.

It’s Friday night and for some reason Friday night’s breed
loneliness for me. I sit here wishing the phone would ring from a Sharshop
chick, a former student, Becky, or my family, but only a soft pattering of rain
and the company of yet another good book. I was standing in the staff room
today when I realized how strange it is living amongst people completely
opposite from me, and also how “normal” it has become. But in the center of
that certitude is the reality of how vulnerable I actually am. Also due to my
insolated nature I reckon how few friends I have here. Butterfly is the closest
thing to a true friend and we are indeed that. Except we come from different
cultures and backgrounds and have extremely different ideologies. Even two
Americans who vehemently disagree are still two Americans. The other paradox is
that Bhutan tenderizes and hardens me at the same time. A seed of tenderness
has been planted inside me from all those amazing interactions with students
but I’m afraid to open up for fear of being swallowed whole by the dragon. I
have referred to this round with the Dragon as a war of attrition and when I
look in the mirror I know it. My eyes are baggy and when I smile I have gnarly
crow’s feet. I also have persistent stomach aches and am bored to death of
ramen, and K WA datsi. I have a box of pasta and assorted readymade Indian food
but nothing seems to whet my appetite except coca cola. An undeniable
compulsion pushes me onward and the more I have invested the harder it is to
let it go. When you live amongst a vastly different culture (in this case
deeply religious) one forgets themselves. I have my known anxiety and familiar
neurosis but in the midst of that movie I also stop and wonder who this Tim
character is? What do I try so hard to hold onto when nothing’s really there?
What is this overpowering fear that drives my every action for so many years
spawning in early adolescence and expanding ever since? What are these patterns
that I fixate on? Who are these other people called humans and why is it so
hard for me to act like them? If it weren’t for the students I would have gone
mad long ago and now I realize why exam time is the worst. It seems the daily
classroom grind is the thing keeping me grounded. Coming back to health I have
been so fortunate here but I never quite feel robust or spry unless I’m
trekking. Both mental and physical health is precarious on the outer rim so far
from the familiar and a proper hospital. In the annals of volunteerism in the
Kingdom there have been some infamous meltdowns but I will spare the
organizations from revealing specifics’ in this public forum. If you are a
prospective BCF teacher reading this you need to know what’s coming. Bhutan is
wild, disorganized, unhygienic, and for me HOME. You have to roll with the
punches or you’re gonna get squashed. I have earned the right to say this but
realize a wave can drown me anytime, and if it does it was worth it, and if it
does cremate me and put my ashes in the Dangme Chu every last particle so I can
be reborn as a Bhutanese or Monpa. My plan is to live through this adventure
though so I can spend the rest of my days wistfully recalling what was the best.
If I was a reader of “tiger in a trance I would think the author is a madman
oscillating between loving and loathing Bhutan. I remember in my first few
weeks my boss Nancy inquiring with Becky if I was doing alright noting the
morose prose. Well Nancy if you’re reading it’s all good but I might just go on
complaining anyway. Two things I’d love to change about myself is poor
listening and frequent complaining both terrible traits in humans and both
indicators of an inflated ego or some innate insecurity. LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE
ME! In that way remoteness, isolation, and immersion has benefited me even if
the results are elusive or intangible.

Has the monsoon arrived? Today was the quintessential summer
day in Bhutan with foamy tendrils of mist draping the mountains under a canopy
of steely clouds. (Sort of like living in an emerald submarine) The monsoon
world is overpowering with luscious greens smothered in a sea of mist both
steamy and dreamy the world shrinking away to this one valley, or sometimes the
mist evaporates everything except your feet. If you have lived through a
Bhutanese monsoon you won’t forget it just ask Ken, Linda, Becky, or Jamie.
It’s eerie, hauntingly beautiful, introspective, and moldy. Even your thoughts
mold and I can’t imagine what it must be like in the wetter places for Jon in
leachy Wamrong, or Sharon in PG (Whatever happened to that girl anyway?) We are
all living our separate dreams facing challenges conquering ourselves or losing
the battle. Where have my peeps gone, as this year has been at times unbearably
lonesome. But that loneliness can be sweet or it can drive you to bed early,
but since I’m an insomniac this month WHAT TO DO BLAH. The real reason I keep this
blog spot is to keep track of myself. I get the feeling that no one is on the
other end receiving these words but it doesn’t seem to matter. Originally the
thought of readership or a fan base inspired and titillated me but now I write
to keep sane and to document the episodes that are vividly surreal, everyday is
boundlessly challenging and mutable passing through the phases and tribulations
of this life. Each day there is a moment of complete reverence at landing in
this place, Tsenkharla at the end of eastern Bhutan in this entrancing region
that I have barely explored. But this is my corner of the Himalayan World and I
cherish it more than life itself.

MORE THAN LIFE ITSELF! If you’ll excuse me I
have to take another shit.

Part Two: WILD

“How wild it was to
let it be”

On a rainy Saturday evening I threw some items into a
backpack and scurried to the tiny bazaar to auntie Kesang’s shop. Her husband
has a battered white V.W and agreed to take me to Trashiyangste for 600
Ngultrum. I have been refraining from hiring reserved taxi’s this year so I can
save some money but this was an auspicious occasion. We drove down the
serpentine road to Zongposar the hillcrest junction with roads leading to
Doksom, Yangtse proper, and Tsenkharla and veered left into a new world. Within
minutes the sweeping grasses, hemp, and shrubbery turned into a verdant oak
forest with creepers and tree ferns as the valley narrowed into a gorge teeming
with vegetation, waterfalls splashing onto the roads. The click of tree frogs
sounded like the jangling of gold coins and floating through the darkening maw
were sparks of fireflies moving in their strobe light procession. It’s more
like jungle here the dichotomy between a few miles never so stark. By nightfall
I was dropped at the bazaar where Piet was already waiting on the steps of a
canteen shouting my name. Piet is a remarkable Dutch fellow, living in a world
all his own. He has been based out of Trashiyangste on and off for the last
fifteen years where he does different jobs for the government. Right now he is
surveying new trekking routes in the east including what he calls the far out
eastern trek encompassing my territory of Omba, Shampula, and my three local
temples. Primarily he works in conjunction with Bumdeling Wild Life Sanctuary
surveying the plethora of fauna that dwell there. Over the next twenty four
hours he would impart invaluable information about a trove of wildlife. For
instance he explained that in 1992 a tiger was spotted across the river from
Tsenkharla lapping water from the Kulong Chu or that he spotted both a leopard
and Asian gold cat on the road between Yangtse and Buyoung (our water source
waterfall) Mainly he spots birds and butterflies while roving as far as the yak
settlements along the northeastern border with Tibet. He told me about birds
getting lost blown over the crest of the Himalayas specifically an arctic bird
who overshot its summer roosting place in Mongolia ending up in the park. On
our trek he would point out a yellow magpie perched on a thatch cow shed
soaking in the pouring rain that has been pounding the Dzongkhag for over a
week. After a dinner of dried beef and seaweed soup we retired to the Bumdeling
Guest House an impressive complex at the mouth of the park that I hadn’t seen
before. He is living there on his current three month visa and put me up in a
musty sitting room to spend the night. My insomnia persisted so I stayed up
until the crack of dawn polishing off WILD a magnificent account of Sheryl
Strayed hike along the Pacific Crest Trail, finally shutting the book and
drifting off to the roaring river outside. Yangtse is a wet place with the
rushing river being fed by rivulets that run over the streets of the town water
leaching from the foliage of trees collecting on the bushes below so it feels
like being encased inside a rain stick. On Sunday morning we set out in the
rain walking from the bazaar up to Bayling School and along a farm road for two
and a half hours to the trailhead. Piet is 63 years old with a trimmed hoary
beard, spindly arms, and a trekker’s gait. He is also a machine. This dude is
nuts, he hikes with his bike on his back, rides from Trashiyangtse to Thimphu
in four days, and sets a blistering pace without taking breaks. I was winded by
Bayling but on and on and on we would go for the next twelve hours. Piet was patient
since I probably walk at half his speed even forgoing the hundreds of breaks I
am accustomed too when I trek alone. The trail started at a stand of cypress
near a Chorten that had been vandalized. Around Tsenkharla all the Chortens are
secured but this is a persistent sacrilege from iconoclast thieves who raid the
stupas for treasure. Inside the thousands of Chortens are artifacts some
containing precious cat’s eye a sea bottom jewel imported from China and sacred
to Buddhists. Most contain semi precious artifacts which I don’t know about but
they are pillaged and the contents smuggled across the borders for sale. The
trail wound through slushy paddies past pastoral farmhouses and flooded rice
terraces. I can’t convey the joy one feels in this landscape and how naked my
soul will be when it fades away. This is an Arcadian paradise with bare foot
woman and children laughing from the traditional wooden hovels surrounded by
giant roses and strange orange flowers that I’d never seen. We asked for
directions and were pointed in the direction of our first Lhakang. Piet doesn’t
speak Sharshop either which makes me feel a bit less like a chump for not
learning the local dialect. We left the fields moving into a dripping forest of
towering oak and ferns across a suspension bridge to a feeder river that was
raging from ongoing rains. Every step reveals wonders and no two places are
alike in The Kingdom. This hollow was particularly enchanting its own universe
of tiny white star shaped flowers, a carpet of clover, and enormous heart
shaped leaves that invited me to recline on them. It felt like I had drunk that
potion that makes one smaller and the forest bigger but all I had had for
breakfast was milk powdered oat meal and a cup of Assamese tea. Our first
destination was a place that irrevocably altered my soul.

Dechen Phodrong is one of the most entrancing places on
earth. I had no expectations since I was only focused at matching Piet’s steps
so I was shocked when he crossed a planked footbridge over a stream into a
fairytale. I’m not sure how do describe a place of this magnitude but as the
student’s say, “Here it goes” the first thing I noticed were outcropping of
boulders including many as big as two story houses. Some of the smaller rocks
had inspirational messages painted on them in English and Dzonkha. One said,
“Trees are the silent beings listening to heaven’ while another said “The good
man is a friend to all living things” As I read the second aphorism I picked a
thin leech out of the webbing of my fingers. Although one cannot merely pick a
leech off you actually have to prod and pull them and then they become stuck on
the other hand. I squeamishly recoiled in fear while feverishly slapping at one
leech after another as the day unfolded. The Lhakang itself is built into the
rocks with one boulder melding with the whitewashed wall of the temple. The
centerpiece of the spot is a gargantuan Cypress with its girth and height
comparable to an old growth California Redwood. The trunk had the circumference
of a school bus, its trunk raising two hundred feet into the mist. The Lhakang
was amidst a coppice of these giants that lined the slope but this one was their
queen. Trees of such magnitude are rare in East Bhutan, like the one shading Khaling’s
Lhakang, or the one beyond the old Dzong in Yangtse. They might have been
planted hundreds of years ago since these cypresses are always in auspicious
locations. Apparently this particular specimen arrived when the Guru himself
jabbed a stick into the moist earth on that very spot, strangely I have no
doubt about the veracity of that tale. The foliage cascading feathery needles
that listlessly hung from thick branches enmeshed in iridescent dew. To
describe the vibe emanating from this tree is like trying to describe God but
rarely has a tree impacted me so deeply. Perhaps the Queen of the grove in the
Great Sequoia’s, or a tree named Cassidy in Fern Canyon; ineffably they’re all
connected much like when you stop thinking all things are connected. Near the
temple was a stone pool which is reputedly fathomless and indeed one could not
make out a bottom peering through the crystal liquid. We had a sparse lunch
sharing dried apricots (from Becky) and Kit Kat bars before reluctantly
continuing. The next stretch meandered through tall grasses past rustic farms
with potatoes stored underneath the houses before beginning a lengthy pitch
rising three thousand feet. At this point I started having the problems that
would persist throughout the day including a pinched Achilles heel and tweaked
groin that slowed me considerably. Piet pulled ahead as I labored stammering
excuses for my tardy progress. The trail was awash in slick mud and I was
sliding all over the place. Up and up and up and up and up and up the trail
climbed past grazing cows, and thatched herder huts through gnarled oak with humongous
ferns sprouting from their mossy bows. Every so often I stopped to pick leaches
off my hands and one off Piet’s neck. They wriggled and writhed into my fingers
their thin black tadpole bodies half submerged into my flesh. If I didn’t get
them off I was convinced they would wiggle beneath my flesh remaining in
perpetuity. I struggled perilously upward falling flat on my face a number of
times feeling self conscious about holding up Piet who waited atop each rise
apparently unfazed by the exertion that was breaking me down. After two hours
of steady climbing we reached a false summit with a strand of soaked prayer
flags before the mountain leveled into a bamboo blanketed ridge. I love this
species of wispy bamboo that thrives at 9,000 feet all across the Himalayas. It
gave me a familiar felicity that carried me on although by now I was staggering
and sidestepping to abate my groin pain. I lurched on having gone silent where
in the first part of the hike I had inundated my companion with questions. The
view opened up to a vista of monsoon clouds that festooned the mountains of
Bumdeling. Throughout our hike we skirted between the park and its buffer zone.
The vast park stretches into Mongar, Lhuntse, and North through Yangtse
reaching the Tibetan border. Up north nomadic yak herders graze their beast of
burden and smuggle in goods from Tibetan herders across the peaks. There are
snow leopards, blue sheep, sloth bears, and the occasional tiger wandering
through. In the area we slogged concealed leopards, boars, and a million leeches.
The park also is home to the world’s biggest butterfly and a myriad of rare long-tailed
birds. Throughout the journey we encountered exotic trumpeted pale yellow
lilies and delicate white flowers made of tissue paper, finally arriving at
Rigzam Goempa serenely perched on a ridge at the base of another behemoth. My
first glimpse of the pagoda was ordinary enough most temples share the same
design but when we reached the Lhakang I was astounded by its prominence.

A sign on the front gate listed the rules of the temple
including wearing proper dress which wasn’t possible for me. I was caked in mud
and when I pulled off my soggy boots I was also covered in blood. I pulled two
engorged leeches off my ankles and the wounds began seeping blood. “Yellama”
proclaimed a teen age monk who led me to a spigot to wash my legs. Soon I was
surrounded by a boisterous troop of maroon clad monks who I dubbed the “punk
monks” due to their profane language and recurring sexual innuendos. The lead
boy was shouting “did you fuck your wife last night?” joined by a chorus of
laughter from his monk friends. “No I’m a bachelor and please don’t talk like
that inside the temple” I retorted. The Lhakang was as exquisite inside as it
was outside with cherry wooden floors, impeccable murals, and obligatory
effigies of The Guru and Buddha. In a side room were fiercely dark statues and
deities with bulging eyes and fangs and an intricate depiction of the wheel of
life. The whole chamber was embossed with intricate carvings of dragons and
deities that popped off the columns. Despite being beautiful the temple
radiated dark magic and perhaps it was rubbing off on our horny monks who
berated us with naughty questions. Finally after leaving the requisite monetary
offering I said, “Hey what does a guy have to do to get a blessing around here?”
The lead monk who was twenty responded by pouring a dash of grainy water from a
silver chalice into my right hand which I pretended to sip before running it
through my hair. In the main chamber I methodically prostrated in triplicate to
Lord Buddha my heart filling with reverence for being there and realizing my
DREAM. Afterward we bade farewell to the raucous monks and headed down the
mountain which turned out to be a three thousand feet uninterrupted descent
through ankle deep slop. I fell a dozen times but my last fall was regrettable
slamming my spine into the earth below the layers of cow pies and mud. It was
the hardest descent of my life trying to stay focused empowering myself to
safely arrive but the destination was elusive and it took several hours by
which time my body was racked with pain. Finally we heard the river and saw a
maze of paddies that was the Bumdeling Valley a place I hadn’t seen in nearly
two years. Gratefully we came to a suspension bridge spanning the tumultuous
Kulong Chu and I thought of my late friend Martha who always said I had hootspa which I guess translates to
moxxy. In a misty twilight we crossed to the other shore where a fragrant burst
of honeysuckle made me think of my other home in California. I collapsed on the
side of a shop while Piet searched for a ride the eight miles into town,
luckily he found one since I was past my physical and mental limit. We
disembarked and had supper at the canteen before I thanked him profusely before
parting ways. I limped up to the Karmaling hotel stopping over in the underbrush
for an emergency shit, finding some fronds to wipe with. Squatting in the rain
defecating I couldn’t help laugh at my primal condition. I continued up to the
hotel pleading for an upstairs room and they obliged. A few minutes later I
came down wrapped in a scrawny towel with bleeding ankles requesting toilet
paper and a brush to wash my clothes with. I had left my flannel shirt at
Piet’s and had neglected to bring extra socks or pants. Back upstairs I picked
another leech off my body tossing it at the western style toilet but it stuck
to the rim dancing like a snake rising from a Persian basket, I could hear the
winy NAH NAH NAH NAH NAH music in my head. Finally I wrestled it into the pot
and flushed. I scrubbed my clothes and took a warm bucket bath before drying
each item on the radiator and falling into a dreamless sleep.

I had arranged a ride in the battered VW who picked me up at
6:30 wheeling us the hour and a half back to Tsenkharla so I would be on time
and wouldn’t receive one of those infamous “Where are you?” calls from my
esteemed LA. My itchiness continues to drive me crazy along with sneezing fits.
I went to see Namsa at the BHU and waited over an hour as he and his nurse
tended to a sick person slumped on a bed wrapped in blankets. Finally I begged
him for scabies lotion although he vehemently disagreed with my self diagnoses
while offering none of his own. For all I know it could be a mold allergy or
those arachnid microscopic scabies. Once home I couldn’t get the damn bottle
open and it is still sitting next to me right now. It’s tough up here these
days with no water coming from the tap but mucky water flooding campus.
Administration is upset because the Assamese workers botched the courtyard
project and must redo the whole thing. The constellation of Assamese seemed in
better spirits shyly walking down the road towards their shanty with the
afternoon off. I took dinner up at the mess amicably chatting with students
soaking in their shinning faces contemplating how endearing they are. On the
brief walk home I admired the misty clouds swooning in the valley and it felt
like I was gazing back on earth from the lunar surface, Shampula was swaddled
in misty tendrils leaving Tsenkharla in the pocket.

Life is Wild in the jungle but also atop Tsenkharla ridge.
There has been absolutely no water for a week so I am living out of Becky’s care
package or the school mess that stores water in a tank. This is basically like
my first two years here and I wonder how I endured it. The scabies lotion
seemed to work but last night I vaguely remember waking up several times with
diarrhea and woke up this morning with an ear ache. These are all minor
maladies but irritating nonetheless. Principal Sir has decreed that all
teachers file life skills reports for their classes in addition to all the
other paperwork. It’s not a big deal but these tasks seem monumental at the
moment. I had a minor meltdown during center marking yesterday when I shouted
at the Counselor who had moved my pile of class eight exams without telling me
where they were. He knew all along where they were but enjoyed getting a rise
out of me. People have been taking advantage of my emotional reactions my whole
life and I should learn not to give them fodder. The mountain still has its
head in the clouds and although it’s mesmerizing it’s also gloomy. Both
teachers and students have frayed nerves but I really appreciate the student’s
fortitude as their life resembles the military. They look like weary toy
soldiers lined up for assembly the haunting National Anthem fails to provide
succor for my battered spirit. I really loathe center marking for the primary
fact that it undermines my morale. I don’t feel invested in my work having to
mark a small section from an exam made by someone else and composed by students
I don’t teach who are identified solely by an index number. The fact that two
instructors mark the same section completely obliterates objectivity replacing
it with subjectivity. No two teachers will mark the same even if adhering to
the same rubric with ultimately will harm certain students. Plus the atmosphere
is vexing with some humming mantras while they mark and others eating greasy
snacks and blaring music and the Counselor doubling over my work and telling me
to go faster or mark it this way or that. Overall teaching in Bhutan is
pleasant until dreaded exams, which is just part of the experience here that
must be accepted. Mostly I just miss my classroom routine and working with
students, I will see some of them at study hall tonight. One thing a BCF
teacher realizes is they are on their own. My front lock has been coming off
its hinges and I have asked Principal, VP, to tell the cook to fix it but
nobody has come down. I realize it’s a busy time but it’s still frustrating and
although Bhutanese are trustworthy I can’t go away for two weeks with a front
door with no lock. Yesterday the sun momentarily burst through the cloudbank so
I wandered around like a bedazzled vampire blinded by the light. Don’t get
swept away in the negativity of this blogger as there is still no place I’d
rather be and while my third year has been difficult it has also provided me a
deeper appreciation for all my sojourn entails. If Bhutan was easy it would be
meritless and no fun at all!

Hey Now, the sun came out revealing towering cotton candy
clouds wafting through electric blues sky. My eyes can’t adjust the splendor
after days of grey. I took a cup of tea outside listening to the birds and
watching the Assamese workers working on the courtyard. They have dark
chocolate skin and solemnly perform their task with heads wrapped in colorful
scarves. They have penetrating eyes that speak of a hard life and remind me of
the eyes of young women working for Damtek the migrant Indians who toil on the
roadways of Bhutan keeping traffic flowing. Maintaining the roads is endless
work especially in the landslide season and the Bhutanese aren’t willing to do
it. There are thousands of Indians in the Kingdom some are teaching but most
are laborers many of whom are from Assam the poor state to the South. From my
seat near the grinding stone for which Rangthangwoong was named I can see
villages etched into the forested slopes across the Kulong Chu. I can see
dozens of settlements that I have never reached each clinging impossibly to
vertical slopes with terraced potato or maize plots blending with forest. I
can’t help but ponder how “time” has passed them by considering the ancient
cities of Rome or Constantinople that had more luxuries thousands of years ago
than we do now. Yeah we have light and cars but I’m betting one could get a hot
mineral bath and delicious meal in those ancient cities where at Tsenkharla,
not so much. That is the appeal of living here I suppose despite the hardships
it’s a beautiful life. If I had to boil Bhutan down to a word it would be
beautiful. A word that might have lost its impact most places but here retains
its essence. The landscape and people are beautiful although it ain’t Shangri
La, and it’s the imperfections that make it so beautiful. It’s watching
students grow a foot taller or the lines increasing in Principal’s Sir’s face,
or the crow’s feet etched around your author’s eyes. WE GROW TOGETHER HERE!
Sometimes it feels like atrophy but like the convoluted oak we indeed splinter
and grow sometimes sideways or upside down. Thus the advantage of staying put
for more than a year where one can gauge this growth tracing it along the path
of impermanent ridges that are also growing in imperceptible increments like
Gary Snyder’s Blue Mountains Walking.

At lunchtime I went to
string prayer flags down in the wispy pine grove below my hut. I strung the
rainbow strand between two thin pines with a view of the Dangme Chu. I
descended through our hazelnut plot winding through lush terraces into the
shade of the pine stand with pup Dawa Dema in tow where we bumped into namesake
student Dawa Dema and her friends enjoying a picnic. There is nothing like a
partially clear day in the monsoon with lurid colors and utter freshness with
the deepest azure sky reflecting on the mountains surface. My rainbow prayers
lilting in the soft breeze sending well wishes to all sentient beings including
YOU!

At center marking today certain teachers at my table passed
around a plastic bottle of coke spiked with whisky. As I write boys peek
through the crack in my curtain like peeping Dorji’s. It’s a glorious day but I
am cleaning the hut and enjoying the view from my stoop. Water came so I did my
laundry scrubbing the shirts and pants on my cement washroom floor with a
thistle brush. Outside a pastel rainbow painted the Arrunachal sky as mellow
light cast checkered patterns on the rumpled ridges. This light play will
always remain in the recesses of my soul. I feel I’ve come to the nitty -gritty.
The staff is angry these days as today I administered class six examinations
shouting over the other teacher who was giving instructions to class four at
the same time. This teacher was berating the students and kicked the hell out
of a stray dog who wandered into the classroom. I am supposed to attend a BCF
retreat in three days but my Principal was never informed by headquarters and
seemed ambiguous about letting me go. This is what I meant by being on one’s
own here. You would think my company would keep our Principal’s in the loop. So
now I just will scratch it and meet my friends for the trek. I like everyone at
BCF and my Principal but feel there is often a communication gap. Meanwhile who
cares since it’s a gorgeous day and even my chronic health issues or the angry
vibe can’t dampen the reality which is BEAUTIFUL! I know administration thinks
I should be more akin to the National Teachers in how I deal with the students
but I can earn the students respect and be supportive even tender since in my
opinion they need that being marooned at a boarding school away from their
families. Today I will be busy marking all my six exams myself since I’m fed up
with letting others haphazardly mark my students papers. I just made some bomb
K WA for lunch but am perpetually famished. Boys are streaming by in the
evenings asking me for help, Pema asked me to summarize The Magic Brocade but I
replied that he should give me a summary. He bashfully put his head down and I
told him to read the story again preparing some guiding questions and informed
him to come back tonight for a tutorial. He’s a good boy and the only one who
came by to help when I was very sick in April. I enjoyed supervising study hall
rapping with the boy’s afterwards examining their tattoos while cautioning them
about the permanence of such decisions and informing them that I had none. I
gave Dawa a hard time for putting one right on top of his hand in plain view. I
get it though; they are so hampered by religion and culture that they’re
desperate to express themselves. They use needles that are meant for sowing
their national dress to administer the tats right in the hostels. God knows
what else they do over there. Many of these students will be moving on next
year and who knows where I will be. I treasure these encounters with Sangay
Tobgay, Kinley, Chogi, and many other boys who were my former students and like
younger brothers to me. Soon we will separate and it’s like some Buddha
somewhere said, “We are born to depart.”

What does loneliness
mean to you? To me it means walking to Butterflies hut for company, once there
he fried me up some Indian treats and sweet tea and we did our usual gossip
routine. I love him dearly but our conversations cover the same topics
including Prabu G’s idiosyncrasies and the capricious nature of the Bhutanese.
During my walk home alongside fireflies in a fresh breeze the lights of the
fabled Hill Station twinkled in the distance. I typically enjoy being alone but
still am lonely particularly for the arms of a woman, a forgotten touch I
haven’t known for years. All I have are the alluring mountains personified as
GOD but here on earth we are people persons, isn’t it? The Bhutanese cherish
community and friendship but where do I fit into the puzzle? To my students I
am a well thought of teacher maybe loved by a few but decorum forbids
friendship. Karlos is my brother but ignores me these days, Becky is long gone,
and Butterfly. I feel like shouting at the void or taking a night hike to the
edge. I FEEL…Sometimes the night envelops me in its cozy cloak but tonight it
feels empty a phantom voice whispering in my ear, “Psst you are all alone…I
mean truly alone like all sentient beings…so alone...no god…just crickets
chirping in the void. Buddha was wrong…Jesus was lost…the world keeps on
pretending…its prayers unanswered…until certain death! If you have a loved one
on hand hold them close tonight. In Bhutan we lack distractions although we have
more than the original batch of volunteers had twenty years ago. For my part though
I am immersed in Bhutan going months without foreign contact and I’m not sure
that’s what I’m craving anyway.

Dinner up at the mess was bony beef scraps and K WA as another
pastel rainbow sprawled the border in what I consider the most beautiful place
on earth. At times the mountains beseech me to stay forever in their protection
and I remember the vision of the blue lady up by the ruin so long ago when the
apparition told me this was my home now. I wonder how that deity thinks I’m
doing or about the work I’ve done so far. There have been blunders and wasted
opportunities but also successes. It was touching to read some of the feedback
from class six students in their essays that talked about what they have
learned in English class this year, proof I’ve made a difference. When trekking
with Piet we discussed that fact that here one can truly make a difference in
such a close knot country, in the U.S.A I feel invisible and insignificant. My
blues were abated when Bunks called me from old Virginia reminding me its okay
on that side. Bhutan spurs ambivalent reactions but mostly just a deep love for
what it is. The best kind of love, I love it for its loneliness, its scabies, its
hungry nights its misunderstandings and clashes and mostly for the nature and
the youth both eternal in my soul.

A Day in Bhutan

Ridiculous morning

Trying to convey
directions to Yeshi Dema

And Sangay Rinchen

Over a shouting
Butterfly

Sir and Sir and Sir a
thousand precious questions

Heads Down for the big
moment

Did I teach them well?

What will they
remember in the end?

A pastel rainbow
paints the valley sky

Infinite mountains
uncountable contours

The mirage of Tawang

The pinnacle of Lumla

The Constellation of
Trashigang

Startling Pema Yangdon
at the door to the mess

Priceless gold hearts
in gho and kira

Skim by

Forever scripted on my
heart

Afterschool I headed up to Zangtopelri which is a full house
these days. Three of my students were involved in a badminton rally including
the adorable Sangay Dema of class six, the decrepit old man was sitting on his
dusty burlap sack spinning the wheel as usual, a barefoot Rinchen was sweeping,
and voluptuous Deki was learning how to thresh rice from ama. I learned that
Rinchen Wangmo has only been at Zangtopelri for four years after having married
the itinerant lama Tashi. She says in broken English she’s a graduate of class
two displaying her earthy sense of humor. Her father forbade her education in
Shali opting to have her as a farmhand when she was little. The temple itself
was years envisioned and is one of the most ornate temples I’ve seen in Bhutan
(more specifically Eastern local Lhakang) it is funded by a wealthy trading
family from Tawang that is somehow connected to the Bhutanese occupying it. I’m
not sure if the Monpa and Sharshop are one family or if the some Tawang
benefactor wanted the temple there and the Sharchops are the stewards. I know
Thebsgey Rinpoche from Tawang is affiliated with the temple with Zangtopelri
pledging allegiance. The temple is perched on a knoll about a half mile over
Tsenkharla School lined with prayer flags and pennants a quarter mile past
Prince Tsangma’s ruin. Upon returning Nima Wangchuk was waiting at my doorstep
for a tutorial and I just can’t believe how much he has improved since class
seven. I remember talking to him outside on a sunny spring day in 2012
imploring him to try harder after observing him sleeping in class. He is an
orphan and king sponsored student with all his needs financially met by a small
allowance provided by the king for thousands of destitute youth. I can’t take
responsibility for the improvement but whatever inspired Nima to work hard I am
proud to have play a small part. On the way home from my constitutional I
walked by studying girls who looked like prisoners behind their barbed wire and
bamboo fence. The Guru asked me about her test score which is a familiar ritual
all BCF teachers know about. As if I remembered all their index numbers and
scores in the mayhem of central marking. Of course I recognize many of my own student’s
handwriting, but when class ten students ask about their score I laugh
explaining I don’t recall.

Tonight I got an auspicious call from my Aunt Mare in Selma
Oregon beseeching me to come home. Contact from the other side always goes a
long way to sustaining me during this long strange trip. She expressed concern
for my health and just like that when we hung up my itchiness kicked up, I’d
better get some more lotion from the BHU, a curtain of rain patter the roof in
the midnight hour with invigilation duty and marking in the morning…

Easy To Slip Interjection

“It’s so easy to slip;
it’s so easy to fall”

(I went to Butterfly’s
for supper and found myself walking home in the dark without a flashlight
(idiot!) and fell off a retaining wall. It could have been worse but I am still
in shock hoping it’s only a serious leg contusion. What a shame and I hope it’s
not a sprained or broken leg but I was able to limp home. I’ve never felt so
stupid in my entire life and pray this injury will heal. The other knee is also
tweaked since I just fell off a wall eight feet directly onto my lower leg bone
which I’m lucky didn’t snap in two.

It’s now the morning
after the fall, all night I had terrifying dreams of being stalked by a sinister
monster intent on paralyzing me, It didn’t make sense but the message was
clear, the dragon was watching. Lying in
pain itching from scabies all I could do was laugh at my circumstances
realizing it could always be worse. I had a very tough time bending over to
defecate but am able to walk gingerly through my hut sending a boy to the
bazaar for water and vouchers for phone calls. I had to call BCF and Doctor
Namsa. Most alarming is my knee bone is severely tender but I pray it’s only
bruised that with time it will heal. The timing is inauspicious with plans for
trekking over break likely erased. All I can do is read and rest and hope for
the best and try not to be too crestfallen. One must suffer setbacks in life
and this is just one of those instances. But life goes on until it doesn’t, a
student came by for help and my neighbors brought me porridge and a menacing
spider crawls on my keyboard making me shriek)

Part Three: About This life

“You load the dragon
on hands and knees. You squat in its dank interior like someone preparing to
trowel a flowerbed.”

Why do I love Bhutan?

More aptly I love Tsenkharla, the first place on this
marvelous planet that I can call home. I was fortunate to grow up in Marin
County the land of milk and honey in an affluent upbringing. Later on my
parents struggled financially after their divorce but for a while we lived high
on the hog in a grand house on a forested ridge with dead red views of Mount
Tamalpais. The sinuous street we lived on was called Upper Toyon on the border
of San Rafael and Kentfield. My dad twice took down the large green county sign
that said San Rafael City Limits since being a part of Kentfield garnered more
property value for our million dollar home. I drove past our old driveway last
December with my cousin Larry the block letters 237 still painted white on the pole
above the mailbox, I remember picking out those letters, painting, and mounting
them with my dad. We spent summers on Donner Lake sharing a cabin for twenty
years with close family friends which fostered a community spirit. From that
base I learned to ski and appreciate the Lake Tahoe basin particularly Donner
Lake itself an emerald jewel set in the pine clad wilderness that constitutes
the Donner summit. I can still smell that pine perfumed air stepping out of the
car after our three hour drive from Marin that seemed a world away. While
speeding over the summit in URF I always proclaimed “America we made it!” and
for some reason those mountains felt more like home to me that our garden state
surrounded by oak. Summers were spent on vintage wooden speed boats and winters
on snow ski’s two activities I cherish and now seem farther than a three hours
drive away. (Three hours now will reach me to Mongar) I was titillated by the
story of the Donner Party who was marooned at the lake in the pioneer days of
the mid eighteen hundreds and resorted to cannibalism for survival. It was a
bucolic upbringing even though my parents were Real Estate people (Now my
brother is too collaborating with my mom in Team Grossman) and I never learned
the plant and animal names or how to wield an ax or use tools. My dad was
pretty good at fixing things but I was too busy playing out imaginary baseball
games in my yard pretending to be Ricky Henderson to care for tools or fixing
things. Since the beginning I’ve always lived in my head which has manifested
in a deficiency in pragmatic matters and proved audaciously reckless in the
Land of Terror or the Dragon’s lair) This is still glaringly apparent when I
attempt to craft lesson plans which in essence are like scaffolding for a
child’s developing mind and I’m still a novice teacher with a plenty to grock
and apply. For someone who treasures aloneness I am compulsively needy. When I took
my fall (a minor injury in comparison to the suffering of the world, I felt
compelled to call everyone I know to garner sympathy and write about it too) a trait
well known to the readers of tiger in a trance. So back to the question why do
I love Tsenkharla? Because this is home, this is my place and community. I have
never stayed in a place this long where one is a part of all things. Here,
nature isn’t something to be gawked at or admired for the scenery (which
happens to be first rate) Nature permeates every second of life often causing discomfort
or consternation. This nature is inseparable from the denizens of the land, the
Sharchop, sprinkled in with Druk, Nepali, Brokpa, and on the other end of the
valley Monpa and scattered Hindu’s. Here on this mountain I am the sole
westerner a voice for my people and just Mr. Tim. There are other teachers on
other mountaintops, who speak to their communities, but this is my place and
despite loving Northern California I never knew that land in the intimate way I
know this land. I never walked those mountains like these mountains. Most
villagers don’t walk these mountains like I do but they don’t have to, they are
already a part of them. Some folks walk these trails though more than I do,
cowboys tending their dozen cows or horses up on Shampula, or even the old man wearing
blue gumboots who grazes his half dozen cows in the village proper where we
exchange amicable Kuzuzongpola greetings on cloudy afternoons. These mountains maintain throughout my moodiness and are
casting their spell on me even when I ignore them or can’t see them since I am
stuck watching my own inconsequential movie. These mountains will remain when I
choose (god willing) to leave Bhutan, and will remain past my departure from
this world. If I’m lucky I will be reborn into their womb a better version of
Samsara but sadly it probably won’t work out that way and if reincarnation does
exist I will probably be recycled into Western America running my own karmic
marathon. These mountains aren’t just mountains they have distinct personalities
and are also ALL connected. (MOUNT BHUTAN) I try to assimilate them into my
CORE or maybe it’s the other way around.

I’m reading a book on my I pad (a precious gift from my
mother) called About This Life. My dad gave me this book thirteen years ago and
it sat unread on the shelf, I wasn’t a reader until I came here. I felt vaguely
guilty for never reading it so I ordered it on my I Pad at an internet portal
last year (I haven’t had internet for months hence the erratic postings) the
book is a collection of wonderful essays by Barry Lopez about the nature of
place and meaning of community. He shares a lot in common with Gary Snyder but
of course like all great writers he has his own voice and point of view, something
I struggle to develop. Like all my favorite writers on Americana he struggles
to uncover an American identity focusing on the lost local. I often emulate the
writers I admire trying to incorporate their styles into this blog it’s a bad
habit but until one finds their own voice it might even be necessary. One thing
I have going against me is poor grammar which constitutes a slipshod approach
and always makes me feel phony as a writer. The only advantage is that I have
an interesting subject matter in East Bhutan a place very few westerners have
been privy to. In my village there have only been three or four (none for over
twenty years) and when I summated Shampula it might have been a sight unseen by
Western eyes, for whatever that’s worth. Anyway thanks dad for the last two
titles I have thoughtfully devoured and this latest nonfiction is an adequate
distraction from my latest malaise. Also dad, thanks for being one of my most
faithful readers and maybe the only one to have read every word of this blog.
Maybe my friend Julie has also read every word and for those who read any of
these words I am grateful for your companionship. This is an extension of my
own heart and community with readership around the world including my Principal
and other Bhutanese!

Time is so odd and superficial and when I call Becky in
Virginia to complain about Morgan laughing at me she laughs too. It is commonly
said that Bhutan time is elasticized and that is called (BST) Bhutan
Stretchable Time. On a dark brooding June afternoon swaddled in foamy mist
lying on my bunk itchy and in pain one feels archaic and detached having the
sensation of not belonging to the outside world, a sort of phelincpa
anachronism. This is Wonderland and Avalon put together a dangerous and often
inhospitable place and if you are fortunate enough to sojourn here you realize
that. Sometimes I feel like a marked man but know it’s not true, it’s just that
phelincpa’s who live here don’t get out unscathed and we will carry the scars
of Bhutan in our hearts all through this incarnation and for some of us the
next (RIP sister) Scars of love and sufferings that we’ll bury deep since no
one can share them except perhaps in my case Miss Rebecca. About twenty four hours
ago I walked off a retaining wall on a foggy evening freefalling for a second
before smacking the sacred Bhutanese soil, a ditch in a construction zone. I’m
lucky I didn’t fall on rebar or splatter my ignorant brains on the broken
pavement. I stood up initially disgusted at myself for allowing this to happen
to me. Like my fatherly Principal said the next day when I bashfully called
him, “You should be more careful” and he is absolutely right always looking out
for my best interests. I walked to the village looking quite ridiculous and
barking at Pema Gyelpo for laughing at my plight even threatening to punch him
in the face. (For the record I’ve never punched or been punched, once I was
head butted at Bar 10 in Anyang City for hitting on an Englishman’s girlfriend
when I was absurdly drunk on Tequila, another reckless decision like not carrying
a torch in the darkest place on earth when I’m half blind to begin with) I owe
Pema an apology isn’t it? Perhaps the laughter that resounds around the world
is out of love from people who know my character, as a sleepy Morgan exclaimed,
“that’s so like you” Of course I took my anger out on her too and shook my head
after hanging up realizing that I haven’t changed a bit, my ego like a
sputtering locomotive begging the rotating cast of engineers of my life for
more coal to run. Even this passage, an homage to egotism, as I star in my own
play and expect others to find something of value there. I I I….Maybe I ought
to stick to descriptions of a place so outlandishly beautiful that even on a
shitty day I can’t help paying reverence. I didn’t spend much time out of doors
today but did notice the silver sky reflected in the arch of the Dangme Chu
River. Somehow I’ve wondered off topic
digressing from the query posed. My love for Tsenkharla goes deeper than
passion, bone, or blood. It’s contained in the eager faces of teenage boys
starved for my attention, or in the adulation of schoolgirls decked in matching
kiras on the verge of womanhood. I see myself in Sangay Tobgay the boy I bawled
at last year in class maybe permanently creating a rift between us. Or maybe
our relationship just like this entire experience morphs into something new
continuing on with a scratchy limp. They are the sons and daughters I might
never have except I wouldn’t insult parents by pretending it’s the same. For as
much complaining and self abuse I administer about teaching students will offer
me a sanctuary or community when I reach the fractured outer world, the entire
configuration of the universe outside the Kingdom’s borders, as Becky says,
“you always have your class” Why is it that we will be damned to compare Bhutan
to the rest of the world for the rest of our lives on earth then? And why is it
we waste so much time complaining or just trying to make it out on two able feet?
Why can’t we stay forever? At first this was a dream come true hence my
favorite aphorism “Living the Dream” but it goes deeper than that illusionary
state of dreaming even verging on wakefulness at times. As I have said before,
the students are my teachers and due to their rectitude and fortitude they’re
the finest ever seen. The realities of Bhutan are different from the realities
of Marin County. Kids aren’t coddled here and life is harder, its okay for a
national teacher to smack a student out of line but a homicide is still a shock
to the nation. Concentration and surefootedness is important for foreigners and
many have fallen to their death in the kingdom or sustained some injury. These
stories always cut deep like the gaping wound on my own mother who fell on
uneven steps in Thimphu. Courageous BCF alumni Andrea who broke her hip and rehabilitated
for a gallant swan song in the Kingdom which she loved so dearly, or the
Swedish mother who fell to her death above Tiger’s Nest with her sons
witnessing the tragedy, or the Indian honeymooners in Bumthang who fell into
the Burning Lake vanishing off the face of the earth in the maelstrom. My own
minor slip has me wondering about karma versus coincidence in this remote
Buddhist Kingdom. I accept the same risks that the reader does living with the
terrifying uncertainties of this gamblers life. Adversity is the only true
teacher for us all just like heartbreak is the flipside of romantic attachment
(LOVE) and death is the solution to LIFE attachment, the beloved ten thousand
things that sent Siddhartha packing. Tsenkharla will always be inscribed on my
heart both the mandala of mountains (especially this ridge) and the students
and friends who pass through my life changing me in ways I will never fully
understand.

Other aspects of Bhutan I love are making pilgrimages to
temples and the prayer flags that adorn the landscape expressing inexplicable
tranquility. Life is congruent here like the patterns of woven bamboo that
fringe the eaves of Lhakang’s, or the patterns embroidered into fine gho and
kira woven by most Bhutanese women. I encountered a class seven student the
other day touting groceries in an intricately woven handbag. I complimented her
on the bag and asked her if she made it herself which she responded, “Yes sir”
My only reply was Yellama or wow! Boys are also adroit at tasks like cutting
wood for erecting prayer flags a skill which is passed down from father to son
over countless generations. Despite encroaching Western aesthetics Bhutanese
culture is mainly intact and so is the natural world with much of the country
left as the domain of tigers and bears and the multitude of predator’s and prey
to play their eternally important cat and mouse game in a trove of flora. I
can’t think of any other place with an environment and culture so much intact
as The Kingdom of Bhutan. There are pockets of wildlife and culture left around
the world vestiges of a more enlightened age but where else do 700,000
multiethnic people unite harmoniously under the Dragon Wangchuk banner (The
Nepali refugees not withstanding) How much will fashion trends, T.V, and
democracy undermine the cohesiveness of the Bhutanese ethos a creed steeped in
Buddhism is undetermined? I asked Piet his opinion about that on our long hike
and his assessment is that Bhutan will remain better off than the rest of the
world but that culture and environment will still degrade. We talked at length
about the Kulong Chu project and the insatiable road building and the
difference between environmentally friendly roads verses irresponsible
roadwork. Piet dropped by for tea the other morning meaning he road two and a
half hours more than twenty miles from Trashiyangtse to Tsenkharla on a sinuous
road to return my copy of “Wild”

Bhutan is a special place one can feel it in the air and
that’s why tourists eagerly shell out three hundred bucks a day just to be led
by a guide here. They come for amazing treks that I will never tread and
culture which is the fabric of my daily life. Living in a mountain village is
the coolest part of all with all the exasperations and exhilarations that
entails. When I unduly complained that I was on my own here that is because I
am not a burden to the community I am a part of it. Of course I will remain an
anomaly but not one to be babysat. VP sir did send someone to fix my lock and
in retrospect I could have borrowed a hammer and done it myself. Teach a man to
fish or in this place teach a man to make emadatsi. Well it took me more than two
years to get a handle on that simple dish and I’m still perfecting it.

Tim’s recipe for
emadatsi: Peel and chop potatoes, Red Onion, Garlic, Chillies, and tomato. Put
a dollop of oil in the pressure cooker, heat oil before adding veggies, Fry for
a minute or two stirring, add two cups of water and local cheese, close
pressure cooker and wait for four whistles, rest for ten minutes and serve over
rice. NOTE: mostly water, chillies, tomatoes, garlic, and onion is unavailable.
One can substitute Indian cheese for the local variety. Also my pressure cooker
doesn’t whistle or even croon since I done busted it.

On the phone my Aunt Mare asked me how teaching was going,
sometimes I can’t believe I am a teacher. I conceded I have a lot to improve on
and confided that teaching challenges my fundamental makeup. I am not an
organized person or consistent in bearing and this can lead to ineffectiveness.
I have improved though in regard to teaching Bhutanese learners and am better
at connecting the abstract material to their tangible lives. Although teaching
can be mentally draining it’s equally invigorating and I thrive off the
interactions with my students. Since I am not one who was born to teach their
must be a reason I fell into this career path. In my brief foray into the noblest
profession I have impacted and been impacted by hundreds of young people and
for that I will always remain eternally grateful. They stay with me long after
departure and frequently I recall their faces, for instance I think of my
preschool class “The Cardinals” in Anyang City, South Korea now they are be
fifth graders. Do they remember me? Or my fifth graders like Jen who will be in
high school now, how did I shape their lives? A teacher tries to positively
influence and instruct the kids who enter and exit their lives. We’re like
boulders set amidst the rapids, hoping to change the course of a life for the
better. I will leave an indelible mark on this community but I must do it the
right way always asking the question, do I give as much as I take? With the
boons of Bhutan bestowed upon me I am obligated to give a whole lot more. My
accidental has given me pause to reflect on my experience here and what I want
to do with my limited time left in the Kingdom. What will Mr. Tim’s legacy be
and how will I be remembered? What I can be proud of and what I need to improve
upon? Each moment in life is a precious opportunity something we often fail to
recognize. We shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves advice I rarely follow. I
spurn myself for my anxiety thus creating more anxiety and more spurning.
Instead of replaying my accident wishing I had done this or that differently
and lamenting the complications it creates, I could see it as a wakeup call or
lesson. The other day I thought to myself what if I just said fuck it and
became a positive person. I have spent my whole adult life enmeshed in
negativity a trait probably passed down by my father and generations of Grossman
patriarchs (It’s upsetting how little I know of my lineage which traces back to
Adam himself) To be frank I’m terrified of dying and this causes a disdainful
reaction to the freshness of life. My mother is positive and a remarkable woman
for it. When she fell in Thimphu she rued calling people to boast and nary
complained. Our reactions were completely polarized and I remember her
triumphantly climbing to Tigers Nest in obvious pain that she concealed to all
but her attuned sons. I yearn to announce my pain to the world as if I’ve been
perpetually cheated. My attempt at positivity was marred by internal strife
between a peculiarly familiar voice, ego, which has lambasted my golden boy
“intuition” into inertia. Ego is afraid of death he is an ugly green troll full
of spite and envy who feels the incessant need to prove. Intuition is easygoing
and angelic drifting with the flow of the universe he is featured in the barn
at 3 AM at High Sierra, or tutoring boys after hours in a hut in East Bhutan.
He readily loses himself in the breeze through the treetops or the croak of a
raven. He values forgiveness and levity realizing it’s all interchangeable. He
is timeless, ethereal, and basically good.

……………………………

2:38 A.M Sunday morning in Eastern Bhutan, as if those
determinants mean anything. Microscopic life teems under my skin those scabies
that won’t abate especially without the aid of water or a washing machine. I
slather myself in the last dregs of lotion listening to the rain outside
rhythmically pelting my tin roof. My sleep patterns have been disrupted lately
and with my scabies infection and bruised legs I don’t bother putting out the
light instead reading Lopez on my infested bunk. The rain comes and goes in
bursts drenching my hut which leaks near my food box, cascading off the ancient
stones of Prince Tsangma’s ruin, tapping on the copper tin of Zangtopelri’s pagoda,
filtering through the cypress grove that I haven’t visited in over a month.
Pulling back my chocolate curtain and peeking out my dusty window pane I see
the lights on in the closest boy’s hostel, a series of buildings housing
hundreds of students. They are no doubt studying for their final exam tomorrow
while other boys maybe attempt to sleep under the gleaming fluorescent lights.
Every morning at approximately 3 A.M I hear the chime of the prayer wheel
adjacent to the cement basketball court where the hoops have no netting. I
wonder why this devout soul chooses the sanctuary of the wee hours to practice.
I imagine an old man thumbing chestnut rosary beads in one hand while murmuring
mantras and spinning the broad wheel that is taller than himself and one of the
finest in East Bhutan. He is probably decrepit wearing an earth toned gho and
barefoot a relic from a dying age. I know there will come a day where I won’t
ever spin the wheels in fact there are too few days when I opt to spin our own
wheel, or the handhelds of Gom Kora. It’s been too long since I visited either
Kora and too much time in this dusty domicile. Although the view afforded from
my stoop rivals any on this earth in terms of openness and light play. The rain
comes and goes like it has since the birth of these mountains and the formation
of the desolate valley below. In between countless microclimates our nooks and
crannies with their own species of plants and critters. When the rain stops the
lilting whir of crickets strikes up again like an enchanted nocturne. I wonder
what my children are dreaming of right now and if I ever creep into their
dreams as they seep into mine. Night time is a peaceful repose from wakeful
village life and like anywhere there is a particular cadence here. Especially
at a boarding school that undulates to the knelling of the brass bell struck at
precise intervals by Sangay Tobgay. Sangay Tobgay has grown a foot since I
taught him in class eight but still retains the mischevious and alert glint in
his eye. Although a portion of his innocence has been replaced by the self
awareness of adolescence transitioning into adulthood. In twenty four hours he
will be in Shali visiting his mother, his father was taken by a demon in the
forest or at least that’s how he tells it. He doesn’t come around anymore to my
house and overall I have fewer visitors this year except the occasional request
for homework help. Perhaps the novelty has worn off or maybe I need to be more
open. My original class eight boys have grown entering different arenas of
experience and maybe are too cool to visit old Mr. Tim. I know if I invite them
they would come in a heartbeat and will make a better effort next semester to make
them welcome. At times I have felt overwhelmed by visitors especially in my
first year when we’d watch movies or eat lunch together. Boys still come by to
borrow money and work on their homework and I enjoy the interruptions.
Different BCF teachers have different attitudes about entertaining students
outside the classroom but it seems the ones who sacrifice the most are the
happiest here. J.D lived through his students as did Becky Story and Ashleigh
and I admire them for it. Certain teachers who left after a year disallowed
student visitations and one teacher even spoke belligerently of his students.
My students have dismayed me but I love them through and through and the
disquiet I have felt stems from my own impatience and restlessness not their
malice or ill will. Students are constantly testing their teachers to see what
they can and cannot get away with. I’m sure Mr. Tim is regarded as a pushover
compared to the strictest national teachers who can be arrantly apoplectic
expressing their disapproval with a beating stick. Bhutanese students are well
mannered and I can always get them in line if need be without the use of a
stick rather with a little bit of scolding which seems alien to my intrinsic
nature. Not that I’m placid if anything I’m overtly emotional but never
physically abusive. The few times I’ve lost my temper and yelled at students
have haunted me long after they have forgotten such outbursts. In effective
teaching there is no need for such communication breakdowns with a healthy
classroom based on adulation and mutual respect.

Sonam the boy who brought me dinner has barely grown since I
taught him two years ago with dark ringlets encircling his eyes and a slight
frame. I remember he called me on summer break from a pasture where he was, “looking
after cow” Sometimes I don’t recognize him in the sea of faces that greet me
daily and I forget him but not really. Then I will encounter him on a path or
at supper and I remember. I stop to scratch at the tiny travelers surfing my
epidermis causing red crisscross patterns to crop up on the surface of my arms
and legs. I scratch my feet against the serrated stoop peering into the
amorphous blackness conjuring images of the nebulas reaches of outermost
regions of space where even starlight fears to venture, as horrible as the
itchiness is the step provides a euphoric sensation of abating that persistent
tickle. Images from last night’s unnerving dreams flash in my mind running
through Thimphu with teachers I had just met taking an escalator near the National
Memorial Chorten. There are no escalators or traffic lights in the Kingdom but
I was so exhilarated to ride its movable ascending stairs, does that mean I
want life to be easier. When I went home this winter it was wonderful to see my
family and loved ones but I was a wreck. Not only was I sick half of the hiatus
I was a sleepless bundle of nerves. Constantly fearful that I wouldn’t make it
back to Tsenkharla. When I walked away from my hut I muttered a prayer aloud to
the local deity to oversee my safe return. My time spent in California seemed a
fitful dream cut off from my real life in East Bhutan. Life in East Bhutan has
spurred calamity this turn picking up the thread that began when I exited the
Kingdom in Phuntsholing through the Dragons Gate trailing a streamer of TP on
my heal. “You’ll get it back” Becky assures me but I’m not so certain that I
will or that it matters. She is suffering her own posttraumatic effects of
returning to the United States after sojourning two years in this other world. The
change one may undergo here is drastic affecting the rudiments of our core
being in ways that our conscious minds will never untangle. Our souls are
stamped with the dragon’s insignia like the blue serpents of Avalon with
invisible ink. Its 3:38 A.M B.S.T marked by a sneezing fit as the clockworks of
my body are in disarray but I’m thankful to bash on regardless my immune system
and whatever constitutes my distinct soul forging ahead into another bleak
dawn.

………………………………

Vacation starts today with students dropping by to see how
I’m doing and say goodbye with carefree grins lugging their belongings to their
villages in the surrounding hills. I do feel better and am icing regularly
although is doubtful I can join the trek in two days. It’s a splendid day with
high curly cue clouds layered over the ridges beneath which one can see down
the gulley to the eastern saddle in Tawang. Little sparrows dart around my door
pecking at my discarded rice in the cushy grass before torpedoing off with
their signature rustling flutter. I am feeling well enough to finish my marking
with my English colleagues and tomorrow I’ll probably get too T-Gang so the
scabies in my house die out since Becky said they can only survive two days
without their host in this case Mr. Tim. I will also score some more lotion in
town steering clear of the retreat since I’m contagious. From there its wide
open as I’ll focus on recovery taking it easy with books and a nice view somewhere
and maybe some adequate food. I am feeling lucky that I’m not lying in traction
somewhere and satisfied at making it this far in The Land of Terror a place I
dearly love for its wildness and uncompromising beauty. Pale sunlight gilds the
mountains coated in a gamut of green always evolving turning changing. The
meandering Dangme Chu a gleaming silver snake slithering from India into Bhutan
refreshing my spirit.

Part Four: Banged up
in Bhutan

When I got back home Dawa Dema leapt in the air nipping at my
heels lovingly. It was probably the most grateful greeting anyone could ask for
and much better than a cat or human could offer. My rat shack didn’t appear as
dismal as I would have thought after fifteen consecutive nights in a hotel,
some mold on a dirty pot and no water on tap. Some boys came by and I gave them
some bottled water. Imagine growing up as a student without access to water,
they can’t afford bottled like me. So I caught up with Kinley and Sonam and
their precious faces brought boundless joy to my heart. After I say good night
and close the door I can hear the rat rummaging and my heart sinks. An
enlightened one would see no difference between a rat and a rose but I’m scared
of rats. I see his black form scurrying into the shadows but when I cautiously
prod the area with my broom handle he has vanished into thin air. The first day back at school it was good to
see student’s faces as they are reticent to speak as if I haven’t known them
for two years. The problems of Central Marking continue when the students get
the exam back they encounter problems including a section the Counselor marked
where he just checked them off in a cursory manner. The whole system is crazy
since my answer key got thrown out, the kids have doubts and a whole day has to
be spent sorting everything out. In my class six where I marked all my exams
there were no problems and all the sections marked and totals calculated. I
repeat it was good to see the students and no sign of the Indians, pleasant
salutations with administration and staff. Bhutanese are friendly and
hospitable people but it takes real effort to make inroads with them especially
my peers. Of course the rapport with students is the sustenance of a teacher
here, some like Kezia and Keith find a good group and others really suffer. I
feel supported and I have a few friends but my loner lifestyle at least by
Bhutanese standards doesn’t allow me to afford many meaningful relationships
but that’s okay. In the USA that’s my style two having a few close friends only
and I am more open in Bhutan than I ever have been. It’s Friday and the sun is
shining with curly cue clouds ringing the mountains. There is nothing like a
sunny day during the monsoon season with the definitions of the mountain
mandala clearly defined with sharp contours, the sun glinting off tin roofs in
distant villages that I will never reach. The mountains themselves take on an
iridescent quality a dark green canvas flecked with majestic purple hues that
tint the creamy clouds lilac with charcoal undertones. The colors spill over
reflected in the sumptuous grass or the coffee colored cheeks of the students.
Innocence is the trademark of the Bhutanese student not that they are naïve or
unaware of teenage problems but they maintain a purity of spirit that I will
never know again. The Bhutanese people are for the most part kind hearted and
open but I will never be one of them. They blend seamlessly into the landscape
(where they work the fields, Kesang showing hard worn blisters on his hand from
helping his parents weed) Samten Wangmo bashfully handed me a bag of green
chillies from her plot in Yartse. That is tradition since I implore her to give
me chillies every summer for three years, the first year she knocked on my door
(brave for a girl) and I opened it up wearing only a towel after my morning
bath. She was shocked and we were both embarrassed as usually only boys knock
on my door. Samten Wangmo has done a great job assuming a quiet leadership role
in Social Service Club and is the epitome of the aforementioned innocence. Her
face has a Chinese characteristic contained in her slanted twinkling eyes. She
was part of my first class that will graduate this year and move onto other
things. Right now I’m entering marks into the consolidated sheet after finally
sorting out the mismarking from the dreaded Center Marking fiasco. It’s one of
those strange transitional times found in Bhutanese schools where teachers are
scrambling to complete their paperwork before final results are given and
students are twiddling their thumbs contained in their hot wooden classrooms. I
ran into some former students today and was disappointed at how shy they were
but I guess when they leave my tutelage they clam up a bit especially when they
get older. The most talkative are my class six students but class eight are the
kids I know the best after two years of teaching them. We have three teachers
leaving for graduate studies in August which means I have been saddled with
seven more periods taking on the other section of class seven. I now carry 35
periods a week and know some BCF teachers who only take on 20. It will be an
extremely busy semester at the ebb of my Himalayan Odyssey. In the last two
months my well documented malaise has taken the wind out of my sails. I continue
to itch, my knee is hopefully on the mend but I will feel that injury for the
foreseeable future and am yet to test it on the trails. I miss roaming my
mountain but accept this difficult phase as part of my karma. Last night I
couldn’t sleep until 4 AM as a soupy fog blotted out the nightscape. I fell
asleep for half an hour having a terrifying nightmare. Currently a teacher
makes a comment that my face is too close to the PC screen and my limited
eyesight becomes a topic of conversation.

The night before I departed Tsenkharla for summer break I
sat up reading Arctic Dreams and scratching my legs and chest. I couldn’t sleep
and at five A.M I hobbled to the village, a row of five wooden shops, to meet
my connection to Trashigang. He wasn’t awake so I sat on the dirt drag
listening to excited birds starting their bird day. Suddenly my student from
class six Sangay Dema burst out of her hut rubbing her eyes sporting awesome
bed head. She must have been awake less than a minute and probably still
partially dreaming when I surprised her with a hearty “Good Morning Sangay
Dema” She groggily replied her salutation and we sat in silence watching the
half light of a developing overcast sky. My ride finally emerged and we sped
off to Trashigang along with Butterfly and Surgit who were off to Kerala for
their break. Once in T-Gang we said our goodbyes and I headed to the Pepsi K.C
where I immediately passed out on the hallway sofa awaken by the widow of the
deceased Nepali kid who checked me in. Once in room 113 I fell into a deep
sleep missing three calls from BCF. As it turns out they went to Tsenkharla to
get me out of concern for my injury and I felt horrible for the
miscommunication. I skipped the retreat entirely plagued by itchiness which I
thought might be contagious and my battered legs. The archaic x-ray machine in
the hospital showed nothing injurious and the medicine for itchiness didn’t do
anything and two days later I took the local bus to Mongar. From Mongar I
hitchhiked to Limithang where I flagged down the Bumthang coaster. Since the
bus was packed I sat on an overturned bucket while others stood in the isle and
we began the long haul over the Big La. Limithang has an elevation of
approximately a thousand feet and in the summer is enmeshed in greenery. The
road climbs past terraces of maize and thirty foot high banana trees with
hammock sized fronds. The banana trees always give East Bhutan a tropical
jungle touch and the ones down there are no joke. The road swerves a thousand
times threading through luscious oak, tree ferns, and creepers in a harrowing
ascent. For four hours the bus ascends eleven thousand feet on an eight foot
wide two lane a mix of dirt and pot holed concrete that is the National
Highway. In the most dramatic scenery I’ve ever seen the road reveals itself to
be clinging to a ledge thousands of feet over a bottomless pit where waterfalls
spill over the road like a rock in its misty cascade. One waterfall starts from
a vantage point impossible to see before sloshing over the road before a sheer
stomach dropping descent into an unknown abyss. Now fir trees ala Bumthang
start to appear mixing with oak and clover like understory a medley of mosses
that cover the forest floor along the vertical drops. Sengor is the lunch stop
a pastoral settlement that is reminiscent of the Sound of Music. But the ascent
isn’t complete as the bus lumbers another hour to the summit at 13,000 feet
always enshrouded in mist and draped in thousands of rainbow colored prayer
flags strewn over the broad summit in a show of devotion for their faith which
may or may not be distinguishable from the Guru himself. Now the scenery shifts
with spooky silhouetted firs with deep green foliage that appears almost black
in the mist. The road winds towards Ura the highest of the Bumthang valleys a
fairy tale clustered village set in a green bowl rimmed with rounded
mountaintops. Like the alpine panorama the bus rolls through endless pine and
fir forests until Jakar located in Bumthang’s primary valley. The last half
mile into town is the only straight section for three hundred miles and is
lines with farmhouses enclosed by palisades and lined with weeping Himalayan
willows.

In my heart Bumthang is a winter place but it is delightful
in summer with sumptuous green valley surrounded by immaculate forests. It is
also the physical and cultural heartland of the Kingdom and where the Guru
first transmitted the tantric dharma. My time there was at intervals
uneventful, frustrating, and amazing. Uneventful since I lay about reading in
the hotel room resting my body trying not to scratch too much, frustrating
because my camera broke and I had to replace it with an inferior model (Lucky I
was in Bumthang where I could find a camera) and an amazing visit to Jamphey
Lhakang. This ancient temple is at the end of a road past where Martin and Tara
used to live and the school in a cul-de-sac. But despite the ranch road feel
this holy power spot has been here over a thousand years. Of course these
temples are perpetually revamped which only adds to the luster and the edifice
radiates with millions of prayers over thousands of years to the Guru himself.
Sangay is also in the mix and is the principle upon which the wacky adepts of
the tantric school drive their vehicle down the lost highway trolling for souls
of Samsara ready to leap into enlightenment. The exterior of the temple is
modest but appealing with its broad and humble pagoda matched the milieu of
that end of the valley. Aesthetics and ascetics are equal in Bhutanese lore as
a constellation of elders in old school plain gho and kira sat on the stoop
chewing doma and spinning mesmerizing personal prayer wheels or thumbing
rosaries. Why do they do it so fervently? I, Mr. Tim, of Tsenkharla was also on
a pilgrimage to this temple which is a founding pillar of Bhutanese faith. Like
Kichu Lhakang in Paro this Jamphey was one of one hundred and eight temples
built on the same day to subdue a pestilent demoness. You might say hey how 108
temples can be built in one day? This isn’t exactly like God creating our
universe in a week and obviously symbolism must be accepted or belief in
exalted magic. The truth is its irrelevant when you shut up and step inside. If
you buy into the Guru then it’s hard to describe the feeling you get when taped
into his holy places. For one thing unless you are a Mormon and believe Jesus
touched down in the Southwest American Christians don’t have pilgrimage sights
for Jesus. We don’t know if Guru Rinpoche roamed as far and wide as the
prophecies state but any devout soul overflows to the brim with empowerments
when visiting certain holy places. Jamphey is an homage to all Buddha’s
including the historical Buddha and the hallmark of this temple are the three
steps representing the past, present, and future Buddha known as the Maitreya.
The primary statue is the Maitreya shinning in a radiant golden glow that stirs
the heart as if he is bathing you in compassionate yellow light. The altar is
in a cavernous enclave which is one of the oldest Buddhist sites in Bhutan. I
can’t adequately describe it as a room since the temple appears quant and
subtle from outside but once inside it resembles a wood forest and then at its
core a primal cave an environment a caveman would savor. So it comes to pass
one steps into a temple that erases day and night and all time that resembles a
cave in some Buddha realm. I skipped ahead so we’ll go in reverse; the cave is
stuffed with statues and relics so one has to move around stealthy. The trove
is usually locked by gilded chainmail but I was admitted into that cave along
with an elephant tusk, blackened murals, horns, butter lamps, artifacts, and
relics and no less than thirteen thousand religious accoutrements. The Guru
peeped out from some hidden throne above the entrance boring into the back of
one’s head as he gets his bearings. One is mindful on the three steps
traversing the age of infinite Buddha’s arriving at his own Buddha-hood. The
air in this room is the same air that the masters breathed and it feels
hauntingly familiar like the womb or a flash from a future incarnation. What
else I saw I cannot remember but it is imprinted on the faded walls of the
subconscious secret termas or treasures revealed in some other lifetime.
Outside the cave is a hardwood scented room with glossy burgundy floors made of
impressive lumber where a marooned robed lama sat reciting prayers out of a
dusty holy book. He glanced up smiling without breaking cadence. Within the
temple on the exterior of the cave is a stone corridor or outer cavern with a
row of decrepit hand held prayer wheels and faded depictions on crumbling walls
of the cave or building. The ceiling of the room or cave is covered in gilded
tapestries that seem borrowed from a sultan’s caravan. After one
circumambulation you are back in the wood room with the lama and now the
Maitreya has been locked behind chainmail. Inept words to describe a pulsating
vortex that makes you want to burst your seams and exalt the Guru’s glory a
messiah sympathetic to all our neurosis, a deity so powerful and subtle that he
can be found in every moment anywhere on earth. Where I admire Buddha for his
austerity and our similar circumstances I love Guru Rinpoche for his wild
compassionate power. He united through lovemaking with countless dakini’s
(represented as ageless teenagers) the coalescing of male solar and female
lunar energies for complete balance akin to Buddha’s middle path. But tantric
Buddhism has a history as fraught with strife as the human heart. In that
manner the Guru is our own God essence and the God essence of our perceived
enemy excuse the digression and eventually I emerged into daylight feeling
lighter and heavier at once.

The only other noteworthy experience in Bumthang was a visit
to the Dzong. It was my first substantial walk since my humpty dumpty
impersonation and it was a start at recovery. Although on my return trip
through Jakar an American Doctor sojourning with his family in Thimphu and visiting
the valley diagnosed my injury as a ligament sprain in my knee and healing will
be a lengthy process. He told me to worry if it still hurt in six months which
bummed me out. I know I was lucky but didn’t escape with only the bruises on my
right leg which will heal quickly. The Jakar Dzong has a commanding position
over the town and is a classic Dzong with its own distinct style and aura.
Within the redoubts whitewashed exterior are narrow courtyards that seem mid
evil as if knights might come dashing in their armor and scabbards. The front
door is from the real Lord of the rings twenty foot tall solid oak with
auspicious wheels painted on them. The Interior foyer painted with wrathful
deities and a bug eyed Guru playing a lute. What inspired me about this Dzong
were the series of narrow and deserted courtyards that seemed indicative of
this cold -mountain and incalculably important settlement. The structure had
all the markings of a Bhutanese fortressed Dzong the carved wood windows the
gingerbread house patterns of rusty reds and weather worn whites, its
rectangular contours but in distinctly misshapen angles as if the structure is
built in accordance with the jagged hillock which it is inseparable. A
structure like this one adds sustenance to the natural feature that might
appear naked without it perched atop its soil. This spot was selected from a
white bird omen hundreds of years ago when the great The Dzongs of Bhutan were
erected physically connecting the unifying country (I only know a smidge of Bhutanese
history so please don’t seek validity in my ranting) It was a sublime
visitation at Jakar Dzong and I noted the giant cypress tree (auspiciously
planted at Dzongs and temples often from the Gurus walking sticks) I lurched
down to my hotel and on the way three small boys said, “Give me money!” It was
more playful than begging but it made me sad to see a Bhutanese boy doing that.
The next morning I boarded a decrepit bus bound for Gelephu but I was only
going as far as Zhemgang or so I thought. I would spend too much of this break
on hotel beds and in busses since serious hiking was out of the question. I had
a seat this time and as usual enjoyed the scenery until my bladder filled and I
prayed for a stop. Chummey (home to Sonam Lhamo, her new baby, and a Queen) is
a gorgeous pine clad strip of a valley dotted with cabins with moored horses
and handicraft shops. I haven’t spent any time there but enjoy it flashing by
the window every time I breeze through. Pines turn into mixed vegetation and
tangled forest on the pass between Bumthang and Trongsa where someone saw a
bear recently.

Trongsa is located in the bull’s-eye of the country on the
edge of the Black Mountains in Central Bhutan. The town is historically
important and noted for its massive ridge top Dzong. All trade from east to
west came through this Dzong on a foot path and it’s an important location for
the monarchy for various reasons. The road slithers south towards Gelephu and
the forest turns into jungle, but where was Zhemgang? According to my lonely
planet map it should be on the road except a shortcut had been constructed
bypassing the town in route to the border town of Gelephu. So I disembarked at
Zero Point and hitched up to Zhemgang through a resplendent forest of orchids
and enormous tree ferns a humid botanical wonderland with rolling mountains
blanketed by thick virgin forest with no trace of human habitation. Only the
grey faces of monkeys peering out of the steamy foliage. The sun visited the
celestial steam room and it began to rain from the ground and my pores as I
disembarked on the lonesome little hill station known as Zhemgang. Every
Himalayan Hill Station in the modern era has a cellular tower and power lines
just as it has seasonal flowers (rumor has it some Indian Hill Stations have
artificial flowers lining the sills) Pennants inscribed with horses flap in the
breeze, the fortress of Zhemgang Dzong sits at the foot of the town an austere
guardian, and I meet Kezia in a bright orange building which functions as a
canteen, guesthouse, and karaoke bar. Kezia is a tall outgoing woman of my
approximate age from Steamboat Colorado although she has spent time all over
the Southwest teaching disadvantaged and violent youth. She is incredibly
intelligent and sincere and quite in her element holding court in this orange
guest house where her brawny friend was singing Credence Clearwater Revivals,
“Have You Ever Seen the Rain” a song appropriate for the weather. We talked for
a few hours about our educational backgrounds and our experiences with
Bhutanese students, along with crazy things we’ve seen at our schools. She
settled down to a game of cards with her Bhutanese friends and I headed off to
meet Ugyen Wangdi a forestry official I hoped would get me access into Royal
Manas National Park in the South. My two dream places in Bhutan are Jomolahari
and Manas and it is unlikely for complex reasons why I will never visit them.
You don’t just hire a taxi into Manas for one thing it has only reputedly been
opened to tourist not the least of which is due to flushed out Assamese
militants that used to inhabit the jungles there. The real trouble is the only
way for me to access the park is through Panbang eight hours from Zhemgang on a
rough dirt road. The rain was already threatening to wash away my dream
altogether. My first week in Bhutan at the Dragon Roots Hotel I met the head
forestry official who gave me his business card. Three years later I called
reminding him of that meeting and he referred me to Ugyen the forestry chief of
Trongsa and Zhemgang. He lives in a house reminiscent of government quarters,
spacious with nice wooden carved furniture, a flat screen T.V, but constructed
of concrete lacking much charisma. Over the obligatory tea and biscuits we
eased our way into a discussion on my aspiration to visit the park along with
conversing about the animals of the area and environmental issues effecting
Bhutan and Tourists in the Kingdom. Regarding my aspirations he said he would
try to arrange a vehicle as far as Tinktibi the village where a dirt road leads
to Panbang six hours south near the Indian border on the outskirts of Royal
Manas along the Manas River, where river dolphin’s frolic and hornbills and
peacocks cry. I enjoyed a home cooked meal and discussed a tiger recently
spotted near Trongsa. Tigers roam all through Bhutan including up to 13,000
feet in the domain of the Snow leopard and both cats leave their tracks in
upper Yangtse. My hope of reaching my goal would mean hitching down the dirt
road to the remote but populated village of Panbang. The next morning was a
deluge so I went to the bazaar and bought a rainbow colored umbrella hugged
Kezia goodbye and set out towards my destiny walking south towards
Tinktibi.

I walked about twenty yards out of town and waited for twenty
minutes but no vehicle came so I walked back past the orange hotel and towards
the rangers house where I sat another twenty minutes listening to the rain pelt
my umbrellas canopy and finally a car stopped and I climbed in, leaving my
aspirations of Manas behind. The long ride back to Trongsa was “risky” as my
driver and his wife repeatedly said. They were teachers and she held the
ubiquitous baby on her lap, a cute one too. The driver a nice man who taught
Science rapidly asked me a thousand questions including if I went to Oxford,
the climate and topography of California, and the workings of my school. I
transferred to his brother’s car leaving my brand new umbrella behind and then
his cousin brother proceeded to ask me a series of outlandish questions until
we reached Trongsa and I thanked them and checked into a hotel exasperated. The
Guesthouse was one of the nicer rooms I’ve stayed in and I they gave me a
discounted rate. The room was all wood like a tree house with a balcony with a
commanding view of the Trongsa Dzong lit up like a bejeweled accordion at the
center of a symphony of night critters. Tuffs of steam drifted between me and
the Dzong making it appear as a titanic ghostly riverboat. I ambled to town
causing a scene at the oyster Bar demanding real Oysters but it took them at
least fifteen minutes to get my joke and afterwards we all made friends and I
ate terrible beef chowmein. It took me two days to get out of Trongsa including
soaking at dawn watching gigantic toads hop in the eerie half light the rush of
water pouring off the tin eaves splashing on the street in rivulets, not a Druk
stirring, it was one of the loneliest scenes imaginable. I called Becky who was
boarding a plane. Unable to hitch out of town I finally caught a ride mid morning
back to Bumthang. This is where I met the American Doctor from the same town
Becky is living in and he diagnosed my injury. His family was nice including
two middle school kids and we all listened attentively to proprietor of The
River Lodge regaled us with stories of his grandfather fighting bloody battles
with the British in the late eighteen hundreds over the Duars.

The next day I took the bus to Mongar town. On the drive I
sat in shotgun and past Sengor the waterfall splashed onto my lap as the youthful
driver with flamboyant Korean style hair held hands with his girlfriend while
driving the most perilous stretch of road on earth, he still managed to work
the stereo, talk on his cell, and crane his neck exchanging barbs with his
buddy in the backseat. Tired I found the last open restaurant for supper three
handsome white dudes walked in and sat down at the adjacent table. I asked
where they were coming from and they replied visiting a friend in Autscho and I
knew I had found three elusive BCF teachers. Kevin sports a lumberjack style
beard and steely blue eyes and is placed in Bidung. Mac is only twenty three
and works in Pema Gatshel, and Warren who Kezia says has an old soul works on a
mountain across from Sherubse. Together they are three young bucks who had only
positive things to say about their experiences here where I complained and
gossiped like an old lady. It was good to see westerners and I was happy to
meet some of the new teachers since I missed the retreat. I walked the streets
of Mongar under a full moon avoiding snarling mongrels. The phone rang and it
was Becky and I told her I felt like I had peaked and I asked her where I
should go next. I had the plan to retreat to Tsenkharla but she suggested
Lhuntse.

On a partly cloudy July day I ambled to the crowded Mongar
taxi stand and arranged a ride with an affable fellow named Tswing who for
about USD 100 became my driver for the day. We headed up to Lhuntse where I
hadn’t been in exactly two years when I hired a driver in a similar manner. Lhuntse
is in East Bhutan but seems a world unto itself and is associated with Central
Bhutan and is the ancestral home of the Monarch, the birthplace of the first
king’s father. The drive to Lhuntse follows the Kuri Chu River as it carves its
way through dramatic canyons which are the lowlands of Tibet just north. We
passed sweltering Autscho where Reidi used to live and Keith currently resides.
(In about thirty miles due north as the raven fly’s the topography rises from
1,000 feet to twenty five thousand feet!) The road continues north for two more
hours to Lhuntse proper but first we detoured to visit a mammoth statue of Guru
Rinpoche. What’s amazing about this statue is that it’s the idea of one Lama
who raised the millions of Ngultrum to build this wonder of the Buddhist world.
It’s humbling to imagine the process, the donors from all over Asia and beyond,
even the Assamese laborers constructing the grounds. The statue is located in
the improbably remote settlement above Tangmachu up a dirt road that winds
through fluorescent rice paddies and maize plots with views of Menji across the
ravine. To the north a cone like peak marks the horizon as the mountains of
various shapes rumple into the sapphire horizon beyond which another layer of
high altitude peaks that define the border of Bhutan and the Chinese region of
Tibet. Where I was standing might have been one of the fabled hidden valleys of
Bhutan like Avalon. It is indeed sad that Tibet has been subjugated its culture
practically destroyed by the red army but one must know history to realize that
Tibet once conquered parts of China in the 1400’s when they were the preeminent
military power in Central Asia. Tibet repeatedly invaded Bhutan until the
Kingdom was united a few hundred years ago. It is sad though that Bhutanese
culture which derives most of its essence from the high plateau is now cut off
and isolated as the last bastion of true Himalayan Buddhism. Here, in Lhuntse
one can’t help but feel the link emanating from the crown of the Guru himself, favorite
son and bearer of the dharma in Tibet and later Bhutan. It takes about an hour
to reach the site, the last ten minutes on a paved road that is starting from
the top working its way back to the “highway” below. The statue itself is in
place but the site is a year or so from completion so as it stands the Guru
presides over ongoing construction carried out by a group of swarthy Assamese
laborers. But the incomplete project does not retract from the full glory of
the Guru whose effigy rivals that of Big Buddha in stature but radiates more
power in his remote setting in the heart of Lhuntse not so far from where the
real Guru entered Bhutan from Tibet at Singye Dzong.

The statue stands nine stories
high with a base of teal marble, an elevated promenade under the Guru’s chin,
and is hollow with a Lhakang inside (like living inside the Guru’s head) The
statue is copper and gold with the Guru sitting Indian style holing his magical
accoutrements and dharma crown. The face of the Guru might appear frozen at
initial glance but the longer one stare’s his golden face becomes animated and
begins to transcribe divine precepts into the viewer’s brain. His unblinking
bulging bloodshot eyes bore into the soul allowing the Guru Pema’s lightning to
course through your mortal bones and at night I’m sure HE comes alive like the
Black Angel statue of Wisconsin. I am not being symbolic here in describing a
phenomenon that ONLY one who recognizes the power of Guru Pema can fully
appreciate. It took me a long time to realize what it meant when the Bhutanese
refer to their Guru as God. I’m still not sure what the tantric Buddhist God
form is except that it’s certainly formless and in that way the Guru is God. He
embodies the eternal moment which is each and every moment absolutely timeless and
omnipotent. Once one accepts that moment and fully lets go of their precious
ego they themselves will also embody the Guru and therefore God. (You are
already, according to tantric precepts a Buddha or awakened one except most of
us are still dreaming) I have found the door but cannot unlock it or rather let
it evaporate into the void (There is no door only thought that anchors us to
Samsara, the cycle of death and rebirth) Inside the Guru they are in the process
of constructing/painting the Lhakhang with sacred geometric mandalas but the
smaller Guru within a Guru statue is their along with his consorts, the Indian
hill princess, and Tibetan Dakini Yeshi Tshogel who sacrifices her flesh and
spirit for all sentient beings until Samsara is empty. To know Yeshi herself is
to realize Guru Pema’s perfect unity with everything including YOU. The iconic
tantric image of the blue man making love with a naked Dakini symbolizes the
unity of solar male and lunar female forces, the yin and yang.

This is where the story of the
tiger in a trance emphatically ends as he is united with all things and all
people, deities, demons, and dakini’s of all the infinite realms and limitless dimensions.
One might describe this actualization as a confluence of rainbow light or a
precious white diamond shinning in the blackness of internal space. There is
still more ACTION before we say goodbye but the ending is here standing at the
foot of OUR precious master completely overwhelmed with reverence and
inspiration! And since we can still move forward after such an end I continued
on to the impressive Lhuntse Dzong fortress perched on a wedged hillock over
the Kuri Chu and surrounded by imposingly steep black mountains, the last layer
before the crest of the Himalaya that separates Lho Mon (The land of Southern
darkness) to the Tibetan plateau. Since my last visit the Dzongs stately
courtyard has been revamped and is now fit for a king, and that’s how I felt
strolling in the deserted courtyard admiring the fading paintings of tantric
lore and the wood and whitewashed Dzong in the traditional Bhutanese form that
is unrivaled anywhere on earth. THIS IS IT! I said goodbye and we headed to
Kolma a traditional weaving village along a rushing tributary famous for its
fine woven items. I finished my Lhuntse pilgrimage by relaxing for three days
in Autscho passing the time relaxing and swimming in the river with Keith, a
dedicated teacher from Santa Cruz California. What makes him dedicated is he
stays put doing Zumba on Sunday morning for the laymen like I was, that’s
Jazzercise. It must be quiet a spectacle with some even wearing kiras. He runs
the program with Sonam Choden who was a close friend of Reidi’s. At night
between strikes of yellow lightning the pearl like Lhuntse moon shone down on
the enclosed ravine dominated by the wide and swift Kuri Chu its waters
illuminated by silver lunar light. It happened to be the same moon EXACTLY that
Becky and I encountered our first night in East Bhutan while walking to the
haunted Chorten on the outskirts of Autscho. Unfortunately a pal hung over the
village like the heavy rain that fell since a student was killed in a car
accident near Wangdi. Kesang, a student, whose family ran the guesthouse I was
occupying was the girl’s best friend and despite being devastated went about
her chores. Life always goes on in Bhutan, they don’t regard death callously
but in my estimation Bhutanese are practically strong minded. Perhaps their
faith in reincarnation gives them a healthier outlook about death. My vacation
ended with a shave in Mongar (a Himalayan treat) then hitchhiked back to
Tsenkharla where the milestones along the road resemble headstones. I made a
brief stop at Gom Kora to circumambulate before arriving on top of my mountain
the evening before reporting.

July creeps on as the beautiful
monsoon unfolds which hasn’t been too oppressive this year. We have had ample
rain and misty days but the sun or patches of blue have been appearing
intermittently. Ironically with all the water falling from the sky there is
little trickling from the tap and boys stream by to ask for H20! I have a habit
of buying bottled water since I don’t trust my filter and am too lazy to boil
it. I also have the habit of giving the bottled water away to boys when I
should fix the filter or boil it and also I should drink five times more water
in the first place instead of Coca Cola. My itchiness is probably caused by dry
skin and dehydration! I vowed to rest for two weeks before hiking but the ridge
called me up onto its spine and I made it all the way to a Chorten below
Shakshang Goempa where I ran into Dechen Choden from class six congratulating
her on a colorful result. She is shy so she just nodded and stammered “Thank
you Sir” I always encounter students in the woods on the trails between
Tsenkharla and their farmhouses scattered throughout the hills. Before my hike
I stopped off at Zangtopelri where Rinchen Wangmo offered me supper of rice,
spinach, and potatoes curry along with curd from Amadumma the cow which I
politely sipped. For some reason I am wary of the curd and think they warned us
about milk products at orientation. All the ingredients for this meal were
grown on premises. After lunch I visited the temple a trove of tantric idols,
statues, artifacts, bells, butter sculptures, peacock feathers, chalices,
incense, holy books and one riffle among the million other details. From the
outside this modest temple is an exact replica of the Guru’s Copper Mountain of
Paradise with a three tiered gold pagoda, this is his sanctuary and my refuge.
Sliding back the latch and entering through two tall wooden doors we arrive in
the glorious main chamber. In my view this room is like that ancient Hebrew
Temple in Jeruselum packed with the riches of the universe. In the middle of
the glossy terra cotta colored floor sits a patch of marble a pattern of
emerald and block traced with silver lotus petals. Surrounding the black an
emerald are squares of ivory white. I always prostrate three times (which Becky
taught me to do halfway through our first year in the armory at Drametse) touching
my forehead to the emerald part of the block. The main altar has a dozen butter
statues which are strange geometric gingerbread houses with pastel lollypop
swirls. The lambent glow of a butter lamp languidly glows in the otherworldly
air on the altar sits packets of biscuits, incense, peacock feathers, and a
silver chalice. Next to this altar on a smaller table are a pile of holy books
and more relics. The altar sits near the middle of the main chamber and behind
it against the wall are a dozen twenty foot tall statues including the central
figure of Guru Rinpoche flanked by his two consorts, The Indian Hill Princess,
and my beloved Yeshi Tshogel. The Guru is draped in a lavishly appointed techno
colored robe, his consorts where elegant silk robes and our bedecked in
turquoise and wooden beads hanging from their hands and necks. Sitting in the
Gurus lap is an autographed photo of Thebsgey Rinpoche. Other manifestations of
the Guru have his appearing demonic with many heads and belligerent eyes in
flames and making love to a demoness while riding a three dimensional tiger
whose paws pin down a naked blue deity and a bon farmer. Painted along the trim
are elephants and auspicious symbols. Along one wall is a throne harboring a photograph
of the Fourth King, beset on the table brass bells, trinkets, and holy books
bound in wood planks and wrapped in yellow or red cloth. The entire chamber is
one moving mural with exceptionally complex geometric mandalas on the ceiling
ranging in every imaginable design and color scheme. The load bearing pillars
are carved with dragons, garudas, and roaring snow lions. How do I describe a
place where every time I go there I make 108 new discoveries, and no matter how
many times I visit I will never notice half of what treasures exist therein.
Here’s what I do know, the main chamber walls are covered with immaculate
portrayals of some sacred scenes from the tantric pantheon. Dancing headless
goat people with spears, naked dakini’s with beckoning vaginas, there are
praying Lamas in their Buddha bubbles, phantasmagorical clouded backdrops, Guru
plucking a banjo, Queens, King’s, death, and subjugation of man and demon alike
all with the message surrender yourself to the compassionate heart of the
universe, embrace the madness and so on. Up the steep staircase with no railing
are more stunning naked dakini’s waiting for their flaming thunderbolts of
wisdom to penetrate their essences, before entering the second floor one is in
a hall with a portal view of the Kulong Chu and idyllic Shali to the west.
Entering the second room through sealed wooden doors one is immediately
confronted with the sparser aesthetic lacking the cannibalistic beast orgy of
the main chamber. My favorite depiction on the endlessly scrolled mural is a
blue man and nubile Dakini making love in the lotus position. There is nothing
grossly sexual about it at all, rather emanations of ultimate harmony and
togetherness in nothingness, heads all empty bobbing in the cosmic current.
This room has a wonderful cedar scented creaky floor that feels grand on your
bare feet. The main altar features a multi faced sun Buddha that I cannot
assign a gender too but it reminds me of the myriad of the same face protruding
and staring at you from Bayon Temple near Angkor Wat. This sun Buddha entity is
holding a gilded bow and arrow quivers and some sort of scale apparatus. Through
a cloth curtain in a side room where only males are permitted is a wrathful
deity illuminated by the dim flicker of a butter lamp, this deity is utterly
too fierce and scary to describe here. On the third floor is the attic
featuring a sparkling statue of Lord Buddha with cat like serene all knowing
eyes and pursed lips with lilting cheek bones with an expression of perpetual
and timeless rapture. Just to gaze upon this modest statue brings instantaneous
Satori. My first year I spent a quantity of time pondering life sitting Indian
style on the wooden floor in this cozy room barely large enough to encapsulate
my body if I lay end to end. I often would light incense and sometimes even take
a crack at meditation or just chat with Sangay awhile. On the ceiling is the
only faded portion of any mural, a simple mandala with a Buddha type figure
meditation at the apex of The Copper Mountain of Paradise. On top of it all
Rinchen Wangmo keeps the temple spotless and offerings on time like a Swiss
watch but unfortunately this description has been pathetically inadequate and
I’m afraid it won’t impart any appropriately profound aspects of this riveting
edifice that pulsates with divine breath radiating a palpable presence of
something that ONLY the Guru can contain. I also cannot describe the boundless
joy of being on my beloved ridge with its cypress, pine, oak, fern, maize
lanes, farmhouses, little kids, horses, prayer flags, aromatic smells,
sprawling vistas, sacred rocks, and soil. An overcast day couldn’t diminish the
bounty of a Bhutan summer the land rejoicing with life including a tiny
butterfly with paisley trim around its jet black wings, pretty neat. Ravens
croak ancient squawks predating all the Gurus of the human race, the raven is the
divine messenger, a creature of the Bardo, the space between life, death, and
thought. The national bird of Bhutan is the Raven, The Raven Crown, my favorite
bird. Immortal! Lucky to get in before dark I never learn a lesson but I make
it and now typing my knee locks up and it has a springy or spongy feeling when
I flex it. Forbearance is the name of the game now as I will settle into the
teaching routine again, if I can only get out of doors into the forest a bit
I’ll be okay! You might have noticed my melodramatic nature a human weakness of
thriving on conflict and thought to enhance the feeling of self importance.
Selfishness is my ugliest quality and why I admire selfless people. The
students keep me honest often bringing out my best side and privy to my worst,
overall they are an eager lot willing to follow the leader. Another assembly
with the kids in rows, singing, making speeches and getting scolded by staff.
Dog’s lay about like logs on the basketball court exhausted from a night of
howling, scuffling for territory, and tussling for scraps. The rhythm of a
boarding school is a unique aspect of Bhutanese traditional culture especially
in the far -east. Just observe the mealtime chow line or eavesdrop on evening
prayer and you will see a different life altogether than on the streets of
Mongar. This is my Bhutan a regiment that I am gratefully a part of. Within
that rhythm of boarding school life an afternoon hike to Shakshang is my purest
pleasure! What thing that is great about living here is it is the right place
and time in this continuum. When I read “The Life” an account of Yeshi Tshogel
interactions and assimilation with Guru Pema the landscape of those myths is
the landscape I roam, you don’t have to use your imagination walking in the
footsteps of saints, Princes, Guru’s, and Madmen. This valley hasn’t changed in
thousands of years and when I leave I will take it with me but the NOW is where
it’s at, gazing out over my domain is like looking in the mirror. I am so
thankful for each day here even when I’m not embracing the moment properly it
doesn’t really matter since life is a learning process whether you’re reborn or
not. Meeting Becky makes me believe in reincarnation since it would be an
amazing coincidence to meet a dharma sister music lover in Thimphu in 2012. In
this life I only get to live in East Bhutan once and like my brother said,
“that’s about as deep as it gets” He was alluding to the landscape but you get
the point. My mom is coming for a visit in two months which I am ecstatic about.
I wish I could show everybody Tsenkharla and I do my best in this meek written interpretation
of a Guru sized heady trip. I am most excited for mom to meet my students. I
will be spending a lot of time with those students and thirty new ones starting
on Monday!

Weather Report: Stepping outside
the fog has lifted but its velvety black. I trace the few lights across the
ridge like connecting stars in a constellation above I can see only two faint
stars so my gaze drifts back to the lights, a comets tail leading to a
fireball, Kiney. The one rice farmers light steadfast and dim alone on the bank
of the Dangme Chu which roars like a dragon thousands of feet below my cochlea.
He’s probably sleeping down there now, I should do the same. It’s cool but I am
comfortable in a t-shirt listening to the whir of crickets rising and falling
and the click of a few tree frogs.

(Authors Note: It’s been six weeks since I started this post and I’m
still itching BIG FAT WHAT TO DO LA. Also internet has been down all over the village
and last I saw an advertisement had crept onto the blog spot page so if you see
any please ignore them. TIAT is defunct and listless without a launch pad hence
the sporadic outdated and long winded entries. I hope you receive these words
soon and thanks for sticking by me in a lean and mean year out here on the
frontier)

We’ve reached a place where words
will devalue the purity of the encounter but I will plod on with the plot for
prosperity. Why write about it, well if anyone is reading this its time well
spent. Most will go unsaid or undone that’s the nature of the dragon, we must
accept it.

Summertime is enchanting in Bhutan
otherworldly where the sun seems out of place and foamy clouds make your folded
clothes mold. You’re spirit molds and moulds over a long monsoon summer, where
the moniker, Land of Southern Darkness is appropriate with dank forests
enveloped in mist, water flowing into rivulets joining the swollen rivers. As
usual I woke up and campus was enveloped in fog. The Assamese laborers are
putting the final touches on the schools courtyard and when it is finished
assembly will shift from the basketball court. Misty tendrils sift through the
upper foliage of the noble cypresses that line the path towards the
administration block. Flowers flourish despite the absence of direct sunlight,
orange dalias with undertones of scarlet, the last blood red roses, and giant
sunflowers. The maize crop now towers twelve feet high and familiar birdsong
and cicada clacks fill my ears, it’s a wonderful time to be alive in the
Kingdom.

Elementary

Teaching has begun and to celebrate I have been saddled with
six extra periods bringing my load to 36 periods a week. That’s six more hours
of classroom teaching but more importantly 32 more students, more planning and
marking. Plus I will be starting from scratch with 7B, the upshot is I will get
to know more students. I still don’t know all my students names from my other
classes although I know most of them. Now I have about 120 students in my
charge. Some BCF teachers are carrying 23 periods which gives them more breaks
throughout the day for prepping. I did come here as a willing volunteer so
therefore I shouldn’t complain but as you know this is my venting forum and so
my habitual negativity progresses. Luckily teaching in Bhutan is delightful
that is if you are cut out for the profession at all. By Bhutanese standards I
rate myself an adequate and enthusiastic teacher but deep down I fear being
woefully inadequate. Despite the delights there are real challenges teaching
Sharshop learners, for one thing none of them speak English at home or in the
hostels which means English is minimally used as a school dialect. The majority
of students will only speak under duress offering fragmented answers. When I
polled my students two out of thirty admitted they spoke English over summer
break and those two were Sonam Rinchen and Nawang Tenzin two toppers who live
together at Zangtopelri. A dozen others admitted to watching English films
which sadly addressed the other problem emerging in the Kingdom. Students are
watching an alarming amount of television, their habits resembling American
children. Fortunately they still maintain a healthy lifestyle toiling in the
fields along their parents. This generation of Bhutanese is nothing like their
elders though, who used to walk from Trashigang to Thimphu or Tibet for trade.
Furthermore parents are not regulating what kids are watching and one can’t
help but wonder if the decree allowing television in 1999 wasn’t a severe blow
to the traditional way of life. Bhutan exists at that cross roads, the kids
still weed the fields like they have been for thousands of years but now they
are privy to the outside world and are certainly influenced by other cultures.
Here in the east the flicker of televisions emanating from huts doesn’t detract
from the extremely rural and agrarian way of life but times are and will
continue to change. In the east things will remain primitive with more variety
of junk food and less willing farmers but accessed by two sinuous roads what
more can change? I wouldn’t expect the landscape to be altered which brings
relief. The impregnable barrier of the inner Himalaya sees to that.

We have eight periods throughout the day and on some days I
will not have a free one in the mix. One thing that sustains a teacher is the
astoundingly mutable beauty that permeates the day. Of course one must make
their own beauty but living in Bhutan is a cheaters advantage. As far as the
eye can see this is god’s country or precisely Guru’s country. I have never
heard Buddhist refer to God the way I was indoctrinated. They seem to pray to a
pantheon of deities and the Guru himself as a sort of godhead or link to the
unknowable mystery. Like God, Guru is a friend, father, master, and wrathful
force. To my knowledge the Guru doesn’t strike down heretics like the Old
Testament God rather uses his vengeance to subdue our inner and outer demons.

I just got back from Butterflies for dinner where I brought
two flashlights! Always enlightening as Surgit joined for Indian rotti, potato
curry wrapped in tortilla like cakes. They commented my hair was like a hippy
and when I inquired their definition of that word they replied, a hippy is
someone who doesn’t wash themselves, believes in fate not god, and doesn’t
treat wounds with medicine. I had no reply. Living in Bhutan we automatically
rely on our judgments and subtle prejudices. As if my combined twelve days in
India give me any understanding of their place or their studies of the U.S give
them an inkling of our place. The Bhutanese have wacky notions of America based
on John Seena as our international ambassador. When we get passed these notions
friendships and magical relationships transpire especially with the students. I
have never felt closer to a group of people yet at the same time so far away. I
hope they respect and admire me like I do them but I doubt it.

The monsoon barrels on steamrolling the imposing labyrinth
of emerald mountains. When the sun makes an appearance it’s seething and
blinding a testament to boys and girls fanning themselves with cheap government
issued notebooks. When they run back and forth across the courtyard I think of
penguins or for whatever reasons bats. The black and red kira remind me of bats
flocking together squeaking in Sharshop. It’s funny that my previous karma or
coincidence has led me to the Kingdom of Bhutan. As a rugged individualist bred
in the west where being different has been my passion I now live in a place
that prizes community and conformity over everything else. The reader knows
that I consider this my heart home being a mountain man why not live in the
greatest range of them all, being an individualist why not go where only a
handful of Americans have gone before. I am also drawn to their communal unity
which slowly erodes many of my ideals and perceptions about life. I don’t know
how I’m changing, like Paul Simon sings, I’m still crazy after all these years
but I am a different sort of crazy now. In many ways Bhutan fits me better than
my homeland which worries me. Logistically I can survive here easier than in
the U.S.A (barring obvious health concerns) where without cash and car one is a
lame duck. Here I am king of a vast domain, here I have influence over
countless youth, and here I starve for food and attention. There I might be
well fed but my spirit is empty. In both places I suffer the same hang-ups but
in Bhutan I glimpse sanity. And that’s what is worrisome, how can I feel more
at home as a misfit in far eastern Bhutan then amongst my own loved ones on
Turtle Island. One can’t question these matters one must only intuit. The gulf
between the worlds gets wider and I feel compelled to make a move in either
direction with a chasm between logic and desire. The name of the game for now
is survival which is imperative. Even an agnostic eventually finds the need to
seek refuge in something after coming through so much peril it’s all one can do
to seek the shade of the Dharma or stowaway inside the Guru’s hollow noggin for
protection. Every morning I wake up feeling depleted, some nights getting few
hours of sleep but by day’s end I am grateful. One can still be grateful when
there is no water for three days or their clothes are molding, heck when Zeppa
lived here they didn’t have light at all. Despite frequent usually short lived
outages we have consistent electricity but I will always regard water as
extremely precious after living here. Internet will also be a sweet luxury too
but water is a serious and holy matter. Student’s having little alternative
drink opaque water directly from the tap which would kill a phelincpa; damn
these kids are tough, isn’t it? They are a hearty mountain race evident from
occasional boils, and skin ailments but on the whole they are a strikingly
diverse and beautiful people. Today I felt hapless and overwhelmed in the
classroom but class six as usual saved the day by working hard with arrant
respectfulness but sometimes I crave teaching materials like chart paper,
internet, or chalk board erasers. It’s 11 P.M B.S.T and I will leave you here
for a night cap and another itchy evening on the frontier. Oh yeah! I saw an
ominous black snake behind my house with a protruding abdomen from swallowing
some unfortunate prey. Karma Wangchuk was using two sticks to pack the three
foot serpent into my discarded hot coco carton before hauling it away. Later he
said the snake was murdered which seemed anti Buddhist. Arwen would have
enjoyed the encounter and adequately lectured the boy’s on snakes. I’ll be
checking my sleeping bag twice tonight. Goodnight Tawang, Goodnight Lumla,
Goodnight Tsenkharla, Goodnight Pema, and Goodnight YOU!

Tim on Duty

My favorite word in Sharshop and
one of the few I know is Yellama which can be shortened to either Yella or lama
and is an expression of shock or surprise. For me it’s more of a mantra or
magical invocation of the divine mysteries coded in every moment. Another month
has passed and Tim is on Duty again that is to say my turn for teacher on duty
has come up. Details to follow: After another night of itching and turning I
woke up and groggily trudged up the muddy path to the academic block. Morning
study begins at 6:30, and the view resembled a seascape with monoliths
protruding from a bed of foam that blanketed the hourglass valley, through the
morning leads appeared in the thick bank exposing sections of greenery. Tsenkharla
has approximately 650 students of which 400 are boarders. The classes range
from PP-10 with cute little kids bowing and simpering with an enthusiastic,
“Good morning sir!” I will never get over tiny gho and kira uniforms with dirty
handkerchiefs tied around their necks, too cute! Classes went well and in class
eight I had students conduct interviews in pairs in an effort to get them
speaking. Initially I wanted to do impromptu speeches but that is beyond most
of their abilities. If one claims that this isn’t ESL learning they should have
sat in on our class today. An American class of third graders would be more
fluent in speaking than class eight Sharshop students. My students are
intelligent multilinguist learners but they lack confidence in fluency. Poor
little Kezang Dema who has the temperament of a shy housecat was mortified
being paired with a boy she didn’t know well. I had to coach her through the
exercise initially asking the questions for her while she recorded her
partner’s responses. Eventually she stammered out the remanding questions. I
empathized with her predicament and guess that she has never had to speak in
class in her entire eight year scholastic career. Tomorrow Kezang and company
will share about their partners in front of the class, so keep your fingers
crossed for her. Teaching English in Bhutan is an uphill battle which often
seems as formidable as climbing the mountains themselves. Afterschool was club and
I led the students through the drizzling afternoon picking up an endless supply
of plastic wrappers wedged in the mud and stuffing them into burlap sacks.
Samten Wangmo complained it was raining and I laughed comparing her to an
American girl. I taught seven of eight periods and am exhausted but someday
will treasure these rhythmic days in the classroom as much as any summit scaled
or triumphant excursion. The gentle rain melding with students struggling with
their pronunciation, students sprawled under the eaves for group work or
Chunkho Wangmo gathering the courage to ask me what I did over break; all the
subtle humor that emerges in a teacher’s day if they are open to it. Water even
came at lunch so I washed my molding dishes before collapsing on my bunk
enjoying a bluegrass tune and catnap.

Evening study is always a pleasure allowing me to help
students individually although they are still reticent to ask questions relying
on memorization. It also offers me a chance to catch up with my former students,
boys like the incorrigible Sangay Tobgay and Kinley Wangchuk who were both
excited for my mom’s impending visit. Since study hall is segregated I also
assist the shyer girls block interacting with Pema Yangchen, Chunkho Wangmo,
and the Jangphu girls who speak Monpa as their mother tongue. Jangphu students
hold a special place in my heart as that village served as base camp for my
solo Shampula ascent and is the easternmost settlement in Bhutan on the
threshold of the Indo/Bhutan border affording glorious sidelong views of the
hourglass valley that stretches a hundred miles from Tawang in the east to
Trashigang in the west. The traditional farmhouses are incised into the
vertical slope supporting improbable terraces of maize, potato, and millet. The
village has strong ties to the Monpa culture of Arrunachal Pradesh with their ruddy
woolen dress and turquoise jewelry (the folks of Jangphu where gho and kira
since they reside within the Kingdom’s boundary) Before modern borders the
Monpa and Sharshop mingled cohesively and the two cultures are still bound by
religion and lore, for example the Monpa’s trek overland in mass to Gom Kora
festival or to visit the Delog in small numbers for spiritual advice. Cowboys
from both countries move their cattle through the borderland forests between
Jangphu and the check post and up on the moors of Shampula. I will never forget
the congregation of Sharshop, Druk, and Monpa circumambulating Chorten Kora
bathed in candlelight singing an energetic melody in one united voice. The
Monpa like the Brokpa splash their rosy essence on the tapestry of the east
coming down from the highlands into the sacred ravines to worship, and I’m
richer for their sporadic presence. About a dozen close knit Monpa kid’s board
at T.M.S.S including Lathero, Sonam Choden, Karma Lhaden, and Moon Tshomo.
Another subset I admire, the few Nepali or (Southern Bhutanese) who I always
greet with a hearty Namaste! Overall you’d be hard pressed to encounter a
better bread of youth than at Tsenkharla. I am humbled in their presence and
soon forget any minor incidents of misbehavior in class which are never
malicious. After the hour long study hall they move through the curtain of rain
to the MP Hall for evening prayer. The girls walk arm in arm cheerfully
slogging through the mud hiking up their kiras exposing mud stained and toned
ankles they trod along wearing rubber flip flops. The boys sling their arms
around each other with trademark knee socks and smart plaid ghos laughing,
coyly engaging the girls. They all move like a heard or flock of migrating
birds always with that indescribable team spirit that pervades a boarding school.
Within five minutes they’re praying in response to the chime of a brass bell
their incantations gathering steam into a dirge then lament before the
crescendo of supplication. Solemn prayer captains stand over each table
overseeing their peers in the ritual. The students move seamlessly throughout
the routine of their days where my transitions like in the classroom are
awkwardly choppy. Right now they are in their personal world within each
hostel. I have on occasion visited the boy’s quarters where they lounge on
their bunks sleeping thirty to a room the size of my luxury hut where they
study and joke, a pubescent musk filling the air. The lights seem to be on even
at 2 A.M and I wonder how they sleep remembering that Bhutanese are used to
living in close proximity and even seem to enjoy it. Overall I had an immensely
pleasant day in my community, enjoying the reward of staying on a third turn
and getting to form more precious relationships despite my reclusive
tendencies. One can’t effectively hideout while teaching in Bhutan. It’s a good
balance as people respect my privacy but I still feel included in the vibe. The
challenge is to continue to open up and stay available for the magical
encounters that lurk in each moment. All this magic stuff the fruits of a hard
existence among these fine individuals who function as a group in a way I
struggle to comprehend. The gold is mined in priceless moments with students, moments
that rarely come around. Since often I deal with the herd I relish making
individual breakthroughs and have adopted several brothers and sisters across
the country (none in my current classes for professional decorum) these relationships
are simultaneously superficial and deep. Over break I dialed the wrong number
for Dr. Scott instead reaching a nineteen year old girl named Pema Zangmo in
Samtse. After a few minutes of chatting she asked me if I would be her adopted
bro, what could I say but okay. I might never meet this recent graduate (who
missed the mark by one point and said she cried for three days, now she’s
pursuing private school if her family can afford tuition) but somehow she fills
a unique space in my heart and if she ever needs my help I would acquiesce.

This summer has been a bounty of precipitation and
relatively speaking the lighter accumulation in spring has been washed away. I
try to observe these things, and I can say at Tsenkharla we have had more rain
this summer than the previous two years. In Bhutan there are infinite
microclimates varying from valley to valley. We’re deep in it now, the monsoon
hanging on the steep slopes (like dragons breathe) shifting shades of gray that
form a barrier between the plains of Assam and crest of the Himalaya only a
hundred miles apart. In a hundred miles from South to North is an unfathomable
elevation gain of 25,000 feet. I live here and it still doesn’t make sense
until I study the adjacent mountains that rise like an emerald wall four
thousand feet from the riverbed. From my limited experience roaming in areas of
the Himalayas the mountains exist in layers and nowhere was this more evident
than Chomerang in Nepal nestled in the Annapurna Sanctuary where one could see
27,000 foot glaciered peaks and by turning their head peep down through a deep
green pocket landing in fertile valleys at an elevation of 3,000 feet.
Tsenkharla is no less remarkable, from my doorstep I gaze east down the throat
of the valley 60 miles to an saddleback escarpment in Tawang province, then
walking a minute to Aunty Kezang’s shop the path curves in a semicircle
revealing a view of Trahigang 30 miles to the west and once you reach the shop
and continue into the tiny village proper you are peering 20 miles north towards
Trashiyangtse. This is the place I’m in love with and will wear on my sleeve forever.
I can’t help the feeling I dwell in a psychedelic snow globe within a complex
mandala of eight dimensional mountains, perhaps the trinket of an alien god
whose shelves are lined with other encapsulated globes from countless other worlds.
Dejavu, Maybe when we get an
earthquake the tremor is caused by this god child shaking our snow globe? The
combination of landscape and people is unbeatable in this foggy globe as the
two seem inseparable in nature. One might even think of Conway’s Shangri La if
it weren’t for the ailments and lack of creature comforts, but in the end the
hardships define The Life more than
anything!

The last time I saw the moon or a star was in Lhuntse more
than a week ago. Layers upon layers of surreal mist coat the mountains swamping
my mood. Entirely gloomy and beauteous enveloping the world in misty shadow an
endless steam dream evoking a mountaintop Avalon were The Goddess of Wisdom
wields Excalibur for the sake of all beings. The connectivity of all beings is
overpowering here and on a day such as this how can I doubt reincarnation.
Haven’t I evolved with these people before, weren’t my students my teachers
once? What about the other side of this life where few of my peeps embrace the
Dharma? Which world will I be reborn into to learn and grow. Living in Bhutan
has accrued me valuable merit a guaranteed seat on the carnival carousal, the
next ride twirling around Samsara in a barrage of blinking lights and circus
music. Yet a gnawing unsettling reason whispers this is it, yes are energy
fields are vast and connected but only in this lifetime and reincarnation will
be in matter only not in mind. Why so rational, who knows? It’s not my style to
not believe or have faith. No worries I guess we’ll all find out soon enough
and what’s important is here and now. Still, asking these questions is entirely
human and in the face of these mysteries we forge a life together. In the pitch
black night an apparition of an illuminated blue yeshe Tshogyel imparts a
message that stows in my cosmic vault, I know now it was her that I met
midnight by the Mani Wall two years ago.

The monsoon continues to pound us with rain making campus a
mucky mess. During periods of heavy rain the tap is dry leaving me with visions
of a roast beef sandwich on soft sourdough, mustard, mayo, and a crisp dill
pickle. Becky says the “Food Game” is better than the actual food itself. I
like her cynicism and perversion that sort of self deprecating personality that
can only thrive in Bhutan. You’d better learn to live without if you’re gonna
live here. Today the village seems angry and I am up against the deadline to
complete my grade sheets a task I find confusing and visually difficult. A four
hour meeting including mandatory dinner is scheduled for the next two days and
my work is due Saturday. Now instead of itching at 1 AM I will be working too.
When the going gets stressful I just look around and am succored. My first year
I would have considered this an inauspicious day but since I am relatively healthy
I am relatively happy. My knee still aches but my other leg is almost healed
and I am walking normally despite the twinge of pain. The good news is that I
LIVE IN BHUTAN, to me every rock, twig, and tree is sacred. Something tells me
a bad day in the Kingdom is better than a good day anywhere else. All one can
do is embrace the monsoon and its spellbinding aesthetic, I look forward to
getting Result Declaration in my rearview mirror and focusing on regular
classes establishing a robust routine. While we were reading a story together
in class six two sparrows darted in and out of the classroom looking for
snacks. Class six is a wonderful class consisting of 24 day scholars who have
been schooled at Tsenkharla as a unity for years where class seven is a
hodgepodge of students trucked in from the surrounding primary schools to board
at T.M.S.S. In all classes the ability levels vary significantly and the
challenge is assessing and formulating a plan for each student. What to do for
lunch maybe scavenge at the mess or subpar and suspect momo’s at the de-facto
canteen? I’m enjoying the presentations from the interview exercise learning
many things about my class eight students including Tashi Yangzom’s favorite
food is pizza which she tried in Paro. I wish I could deliver her a piping hot
slice from West Brooklyn. Those poor kids eat the same bland curry everyday for
lunch and must miss their mother’s special emadatsi like I miss my mother’s
special chicken dish.

A grueling day followed by a four hour meeting on GNH.
Coming out of dinner I paused to watch the kids practicing dance on the dimly lit
basketball court in a misting shower. They were so happy reveling in their
culture decked in school issued gho and kira spending rare moments with the
opposite gender. Suddenly I felt like an interloper realizing that when I go
life here will continue on unaffected by my absence, a fact making me both
happy and sad. There’s little room for depression here so I take a deep breath
and remember where I am letting my spirit fly through the darkness and rain to
Lumla or zip out over Bumdeling and the unknown land beyond, I return in a
flash via Darchin a place sacred to me and the kids.

I want to believe in the Guru but all I have is legend
learned from the Bhutanese and a potent feeling in the presence of masks and
statues that have transmitted live qualities, (I have felt the presence of Guru
Pema but what was it exactly I was feeling) like my best friend said I don’t
believe in anything which leaves a gaping hole in my heart bigger than the
Dharma and one that can’t be filled by Christ love.

Manifest

Another classic Himalayan weekend, Saturday was results day
with the student body and about a hundred parents assembled on the basketball
court for the announcing of academic excellence certificates. I have mixed
feelings on this day, I’m proud of students for their achievements but I feel
strong empathy for the students who failed. In my homeroom Kesang Nima a boy I
have written about before placed tenth in the class out of thirty. When I
taught him in class seven two years ago he was dead last and had to repeat the
seventh grade. To bypass twenty students in position is unprecedented in this
structure. Then there’s Dawa Dema the affable student who towers over her
friends since she was already tall and broad shouldered and repeated 8 last
year. Dawa Dema is failing again and one could read the despondent trail of
thoughts behind those sad eyes and I tried to encourage her best I could. These
stories and others are repeated as everything rides on the results of these
tests. The results themselves are shared and viewed by all so everyone knows
that Sither Wangmo is last, that’s why I chuck confidentiality and reveal the
scores here. The results themselves are posted on tickertape sheets, a complex
three foot long spreadsheet with a final score and class position at the
caboose of this train of befuddling numbers. It took me eight hours to punch
the numbers mostly because of my poor eyesight wary of making a crucial
mistake. I still have to file attendance numbers, obtain some signatures and
stamps, and rap up some Kidu accounts making the whole ordeal of exams stretch
more than two months.

Life is primal on the frontier now with the water situation
no better than it was my first year and dirty clothes pilling up and me
wondering what I can manage to eat without any clean water stored. Where
electricity is great water is essential for a salubrious life. After results
declaration I headed down the hill eventually getting scooped up in Yartse by a
car carrying the Namkhar Lama. We had a bite in Doksom and eventually I moved
on to Gom Kora in a scorching heat. It was a rare rain free day with electric
blue skies and vividly appointed clouds that billowed from the mountaintops
into the azure atmosphere. The steep canyon traps the heat that bounced off the
blacktop and by the time I reached the Kora I thought I might evaporate and
immediately sought shelter in the oasis of the temple grounds. Gom Kora is a
fabulous temple perched on the bank of the Dangme Chu and sandwiched between
the river and the road. When I gaze from the road at the gleaming golden pagoda
I imagine what Guru Rinpoche encountered here when he passed through. If he
came on a summer day like this one he would have had to carry drinking water
and instead of the temple would have seen only an ominous boulder perhaps not
shaded by the magnificent Bhodi tree that provides a refuge from the merciless
sun for modern pilgrims. The story goes that the Guru was wrestling with a
demoness who had spawned in a Tibetan lake and pestered him through Tawang
crossing the nonexistent border at Omba before the pair engaged at Gongsa
before ending up at Gom Kora. He actually subdued the pestilence at another
cave a mile down the road towards Trashigang. When the Guru was meditating in
the cave at the base of the rock he was again startled by the serpentine
demoness and he left his imprint there along with the hood of the serpent.
Therefore Gom Kora is the direct link to the Guru for East Bhutan and attracts
devout pilgrims from Arrunachal Pradesh and Bhutan during the annual Tsechu.
This Saturday was quiet just roosters and elderly worshipful who seem to step
from the whitewashed walls of the temple itself. Surrounding the Goempa, banks of prayer
wheels form a pentagram around the interior. Wide lanes paved with beautiful stone
surrounds the banks of prayer wheels. The Goempa itself is several hundred
years old and impressive especially for the east rising hundreds of feet from
base to apex. There is an ineffable quality of the structure with religious plates
high above inlaid into the rusty trim beneath the pagoda itself. Within the
complex is what I call the oasis a walled garden containing the formidable
boulder and cave which is sheltered by an enormous bodhi tree like the one Lord
Buddha meditated beneath attaining enlightenment. I sat on a cool stone ledge
imagining myself the colors of the rainbow letting my thoughts dissolve into
the roar of the river and chime of the bells which emanated deep from an
otherworldly trance pocket. A weird sensation as thoughts died I temporarily
entered the Bardo (the DMT realm) steamrollered by the death molecule, the
sounds of the void engulfed me. My monkey mind soon identified those vibrations
as the noise of the river and the rustling of the breeze through the heart
shaped bodhi leaves. I came back to reality too quickly unable to let go of my
consciousness always coming back to useless words. I remained in my oasis for
many hours watching a spattering of tourists come and go, first a group of
elderly Japanese followed by a youngish hip looking western dude accompanied by
a pruned older man and their guide. I stayed until the sun slid beneath the
ridge and then circumambulated a final time before heading back the way I came.
Hitchhiking out of Doksom I pulled a ride with the assistant Gup (mayor) of
Khamdung. While we plodded up the curvy road I observed an evening rainbow
stretching from Yellang towards The Kulong Chu. He imparted some very
interesting statistics that because of the mesmerizing rainbow and undulating
landscape I was unable to properly record. Trashiyangtse has eight Gewogs in
which Khamdung has the largest population with 400 households. Khamdung Gewog
encompasses the tiger’s territory stretching from Doksom up to Tsenkharla,
Shakshang, Darchin, Shali, and Chakademi. Kiney to eastern border falls under a
different Gewog, to the north Yangtse town and Bumdeling form two other
Gewog’s. Remarkably after two and a half years of roving I have only touched
half of the Gewogs in my own Dzongkhag. By comparison Trahigang Dzongkhag has
one of the largest populations in the country spread out in many villages sustained
by various agricultures. On Sunday I braved the heat enjoying another respite
from the rains, and ascended the ridge detouring through the grove eventually
looping around Shakshang via the ridge over idyllic Shali. The trail passes a
pair of my favorite Chortens unadorned receptacles with heart throbbing views
of the Kulong Chu and some knobby peaks towards the Yangtse wilderness, turning
the eye left towards Trashigang and the impressive pinnacles above Kunglung what
strikes the observer is that the mountains bases touch the river itself with no
shoreline whatsoever creating a desolate remoteness. All life in this region
clings to the mountainside leaving dusty Doksom and Gom Kora anomalous.
Trashiyangtse town is a rare settlement in a small bowl that provides the
easterner some relief from living on cliffs. At Tsenkharla our tiny mountaintop
ridge feels open compared to the myriad of tiny villages incised into the
verdant slopes. One has the feeling that a misstep might send a farmer
plummeting three thousand feet to the river below. In short, I haven’t seen
such ruggedness anywhere on earth with hardy villages interspersed with
expansive forests that unfurl on ten thousand horizons. When one swelters on
the bank of the Dangme Chu at the confluence of the two torrential rivers they
have no perspective of the scope of mountains one observes from Tsenkharla. Of
course every mountain I imbibe has its other side that I will never know but I
am contented at Tsenkharla nestled beneath Zangtopelri on Guru’s Copper
Mountain of paradise. Right now life is hard on this mountain but also
indescribably wondrous. While meditating nestled between my two beloved
cypresses an umbrella of feathery foliage with peepholes revealing portions of
the valley I could hear the distant hush of the river and the sounds of ravens
and a twirling salutation originating from an elfin realm, a woo wooing that
whips around in glimmering pastel tones. This wobbly vibration is the nexus of
the valley and always emanates from the somewhere in no-man’s-land down near
the Dangme Chu as it sweeps into the Kingdom from the lowlands of Arrunachal (Arrunachal
Pradesh is shaped like a woman’s stiletto heel that is missing the toe, and
Bhutan itself forms that stubby toe) The colors of the mountains and sky are
lurid washed from constant summer rains and hung to dry on a butterfly’s wings.
Along the furrowed terraces of the hourglass valley, sun gleams off tin roofs
of minute dwellings perched on palisades that drop impossibly to the desolate
and mostly abandoned paddies of the eastern slope of Tsenkharla. The quality of
the sky is the deepest most hopeful blue I’ve seen and is childlike in essence,
a child’s blue and the boy’s I met on the trail laughed hysterically recapping
our meeting where a boy called me “La, in an obsequious tone and his friends
were ribbing him.

It’s been exactly one month since my fall and my knee is
still tweaked but making some progress. I am able to roam at least to Shakshang
a roundtrip of three miles but it smarts afterwards from excursion, as usual
forbearance is needed. Tomorrow teaching will continue and I will embrace my
new schedule and extra classes, after all I am here to teach and for that I am
grateful. Rainclouds accumulated in the evening pooling in the high cirques
briefly revealing the lost Dragon’s Tail contour before sweeping into the
valley engulfing our ridge. The monsoon denotes an intensely passive rhythm
distinct from other seasons. Bhutan doesn’t have seasons that I’m familiar
with, rather different aspects of winter and summer bleeding into spring and
fall. Summer is ruled by the rain an ocean of mist settled over the country the
tendrils of the great Bengal Monsoon stalled over the labyrinth of the eastern
Himalayas.

When living in Bhutan one must be vigilant constantly
reinventing oneself in the classroom and in life. It’s a marathon of endurance
which must be endured with grace, humor, and humility. For me it’s been an
arduous odyssey. A knock at my door, Sangay Tobgay wants to charge his I Pod,
his results have dropped and I worry that he won’t pass the Ten Standard Exam.
A boy that smart has so much to contribute even if his test scores don’t prove
that. He is so much like me and I never would have passed that the government
examination at his age. What can I do as a teacher to better prepare them for
standardized tests and still teach them how to be well rounded pupils? This is
a formidable challenge of teaching in East Bhutan, a constant process of
picking yourself up and dusting yourself off, of giving as much as you take.
The great ones give more than they take like Father Mackey and Nancy
Strickland. Bhutan gives me so much it overflows the coke bottle of my soul, The
Dragon gives in ways I am blind too and ways glaringly apparent. Standing in
her spotlight at the center of the universe is a mesmerizing mountainous
mandala, a trove of raw purity and awareness packed with precious people,
gigantic bees, and plants. I consider it my auspicious karma to be here no matter
what outcomes may occur. At this stage in my Samsara adventure I am reborn into
this valley. Skeptical as I am, it seems improbable that this is my first trip
down the corridor of this valley trolling the Dangme Chu. Nor is it the first
interaction with certain people here but how I’m bound into their matrix
alludes my finite perceptions. Where it is my good fortune to be here, I also
feel called to teach them in this exchange, manifesting my own destiny.

I wonder if anyone is still reading this rant, if so you
might be wondering if it will go on forever. I haven’t accessed internet from
my home in six months and must ask Principal Sir for the code every time and
the office is only open school hours. Basically I’m offline which sucks for
teaching since I can’t access cool ideas. Even in Bhutan people are dependent
on their gear. If you’ve travelled this far maybe you’re willing to continue?
It’s ten o’clock on a Sunday Evening and like any teacher I’m thinking about
tomorrows lessons.

About Me

I was raised in Marin County Cailifornia north of San Francisco. I was blessed growing up spending summers with my family on Donner Lake near Lake Tahoe in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I earned my B.S in English and Writing from Southern Oregon University in Ashland. After college I spent some years skiing at Alpine Meadows before teaching ESL in South Korea for a year. I was fortunate to travel to Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia while in Asia. I was particularly fascinated by Khmer culture and enjoyed my visit to Angkor. I recently completed my teacher training at Dominican University in San Rafael receiving my California Credential. With the support of The Bhutan Canada Foundaton I am leaving for Bhutan in January 2012 for a stint as a teacher.